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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS  1084 
.B2 
S7 
1873 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
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may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE  RET 
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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


http://archive.org/details/starpapersorexpeOObeec_0 


"4 


STAR  PAPERS;  . 


ps  iogy 


r 


o 


OR, 


Experiences  of  Art  and  Nature. 


BY 


HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 


Ntfo  lEUttton, 

WITH  ADDITIONAL  ARTICLES,  SELECTED  FROM  MORE  RECENT 
/  WRITINGS. 


NEW  YORK:. 
J.  B.  FORD  AND  COMPANY. 

1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873, 
BY   J.  B.  FORD    &  CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  "Washington. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


♦ 


PREFACE. 


The  Star  Papers,  first  published  eighteen  years 
ago,  have  long  been  out  of  print,  and  now  appear  in 
the  uniform  series  of  my  miscellaneous  works,  with 
the  addition  of  a  few  articles  from  the  multitude 
written  since  the  book  appeared.  The  earliest  and 
latest  of  the  "Star  Articles"  appear  in  this  volume; 
those  added  to  the  original  collection  being  culled 
from  the  columns  of  the  "Christian  Union." 

In  literary  form  they  have  been  as  unartificial  as 
possible.  They  have  sprung  out  of  a  life  of  rushing 
activity,  as  bubbles  form  in  a  mountain  stream.  For, 
as  bubbles  catch  the  shapes  and  colors  of  rock,  tree, 
and  sky,  reflect  them  for  a  moment,  break,  and  pass 
away,  so  these  papers  may  give  a  moment's  bright- 
ness to  some  solitary  hour,  even  if  they  go  out  with 
one  reading. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher. 

rO 

vC)    Brooklyn,  February  13,  1873. 

60 

^? 
Oo 


4 


PKEFACE 

TO  THE  ORIGINAL  EDITION. 


The  author  has  been  saved  the  trouble  of  searching 
for  a  title  to  his  book  from  the  simple  circumstance 
that  the  articles  of  which  the  work  is  made  up  appeared 
in  the  "New  York  Independent "  with  the  signature 
of  a  star,  and,  having  been  familiarly  called  the  "  Star 
Articles,"  by  way  of  designation,  they  now  become,  in  a 
book  form,  Star  Papers. 

Only  such  papers  as  relate  to  Art  and  to  rural  affairs 
have  been  published  in  this  volume.  It  was  thought 
best  to  put  all  controversial  articles  in  another,  and 
subsequent,  volume. 

The  "  Letters  from  Europe "  were  written  to  home- 
friends,  during  a  visit  of  only  four  weeks,  —  a  period 
too  short  to  allow  the  subsidence  of  that  enthusiasm 
which  every  person  must  needs  experience  who,  for 
the  first  time,  stands  in  the  historic  places  of  the 
Old  World.     An  attempt  to  exclude  from  these  let- 


vi  PREFACE. 

ters  any  excess  of  personal  feeling,  to  reduce  them  to 
a  more  moderate  tone,  to  correct  their  judgments,  or 
to  extract  from  them  the  fiery  particles  of  enthusiasm, 
would  have  taken  away  their  very  life. 

The  other  papers  in  this  volume,  for  the  most 
part,  were  written  from  the  solitudes  of  the  country, 
during  the  vacations  of  three  summers.  I  can  express 
no  kinder  wish  for  those  wTho  may  read  them,  than 
that  they  may  be  one  half  as  happy  in  the  reading 
as  I  have  been  in  the  scenes  which  gave  them  birth. 


Brooklyn,  1855. 


CONTENTS. 


LETTEES  FEOM  EUROPE. 

PAGE 

I.   Ruins  of  Kenilworth.  —  Warwick  Castle  .      .  9 


II.  A  Sabbath  at  Stratford-on-Avon    ...  27 

III.  Oxford    .      .      .  41 

IV.  The  Louvre.  —  Luxembourg  Gallery     .      .  56 

V.  The  Louvre  .  .70 

VI.  London  National  Gallery       ....  77 

EXPERIENCES  OF  NATURE. 

L  A  Discourse  of  Flowers       .      .      .            .  93 

II.  Death  in  the  Country      .      .      .      ..."  106 

III.  Inland  vs.  Seashore  110 

IV.  New  England  Graveyards       . %    .      .      .  121 
V.    Towns  and  Trees    .  129 

VI.  The  First  Breath  in  the  Country  .  .  .137 
VII.    Trouting  144 

VIII.    A  Ride  .  .152 

IX.    The  Mountain  Stream  161 

X.   A  Country  Ride  172 

XI.    Farewell  to  the  Country  182 

XII.    School  Reminiscence  189  . 

XIII.  The  Value  of  Birds  194 

XIV.  A  Rough  Picture  from  Life     .      .      .      .  197 
XV.    A  Ride  to  Fort  Hamilton  201 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XVI.    Sights  from  my  Window  211 

XVII.  The  Death  of  our  Almanac       .      .  .218 

XVIII.    Fog  in  the  Harbor  226 

XIX.  The  Morals  of  Fishing       ....  231 

XX.  The  Wanderings  of  a  Star     ....  240 

XXI.    Book-Stores,  Books  250 

XXII.    Gone  to  the  Country  256 

XXIII.  Dream-Culture     .      .      .  .  .263 

XXIV.  A  Walk  among  Trees       .      .      .      .      .  271 
XXV.    Building  a  House   285 

XXVI.  Christian  Liberty  in  the  Use  of  the  Beau- 
tiful  293 

XXVII.  Nature  a  Minister  of  Happiness    .  %           .  303 

XXVIII.  Springs  and  Solitudes  .      .             .      .  314 

XXIX.    Mid-October  Days  324 

XXX.   A  Moist  Letter  336 

XXXI.    Frost  on  the  Window  344 

XXXII.  Snow-Storm  Traveling       ....  348 

LATE  PAPERS. 

I.    A  Boy  again  361 

II.  Books  and  Illustrations       ....  365 

III.  Living  Languages       .      .      .      .    '  .      .  370 

IV.  Hortus  Siccus  .......  375 

V.    Unclaimed  Happiness   381 

VI.  "The  Old  Sawmill"       .'  /...      .      .      .  385 

VII.    The  Hoosier  Cat   .  389 

VIII.    A  Plea  for  Boys  393 

IX.    Going  to  School  397 

X.    Lyman  Beecher   403 

XL    Bird  Singing  408 

XII.    Sudden  Death  .  412 

XIII.    A  Heart  in  Little  Things  414 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

XI Y.   November  Days  418 

XV.  A  Christmas  Greeting       .      .             .      .  422 

XVI.    Spring  is  Coming  425 

XVII.    The  Beauty  of  Trees  429 

XVIII.   Autumn  Frosts  432 

XIX.   A  Pious  Cat  436 

XX.    Leaves  440 

XXI.   The  Descent  op  Winter  444 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 


 — 

l. 

♦ 

RUINS   OF   KENILWORTH. — WARWICK  CASTLE. 

HpHE  sun  is  sliming  through  haze  of  smoke  and  va- 
por: and  every  body  says,  what  a  splendid  day!  at 
'  least,  every  body  whose  ideas  of  a  fine  day  are  English. 
It  is  a  fine  day  in  England  when  it  does  not  actually 
rain.  To-day,  then,  blessed  with  a  sun  that  shines 
visibly,  but  with  a  tender  brightness,  I  will  go  to 
Kenil worth ;  and  to  Warwick  castle ;  and  to  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  more  interesting  to  me  than  either.  Waiter, 
will  you  bring  my  bill?  I  leave  in  the  10^  o'clock 
train  to  Coventry."  "  Yez-zur."  Ah,  very  reasonable. 
I  have  been  here  a  day  and  a-half,  and  it  is  but  five 
dollars  and  a-quarter,  servants'  fees  and  all ;  which,  by 
the  way,  I  will  always  have  included  in  the  bill.  I  do 
not  like  to  settle  with  four  landlords  at  every  inn; — ■ 
the  chambermaid  landlady,  the  boots  landlord,  the 
waiter  landlord,  the  porter  landlord,  and  the  landlord 
— five  instead  of  four.  To  the  railway  station  is  but 
1* 


10 


RIDE  TO  KENILWORTH 


a  step  ;  the  waiter  bids  me  a  very  polite  good-bye — we 
don't  shake  hands — and  the  porter  with  my  baggage 
follows  me  to  the  cars.  A  trim  little  engine,  with 
a  smoke-pipe  not  larger  than  our  stove-pipes,  is  amus- 
ing itself  with  every  antic  possible  to  a  thing  of  its 
nature.  It  runs  out  with  a  fierce  whistle,  for  no 
other  reason,  apparently,  than  to  run  back  again 
with  another  whistle.  It  reminds  one  of  a  rheumatic 
old  gentleman  pacing  about  to  limber  his  joints.  After 
a  little  sport  he  sobers  down  to  business  and  rails  to 
work  making  up  a  train.  I  am  booked  for  the  second- 
class  cars,  which  are  about  otie-third  cheaper  than  the 
first  class,  and  a  good  deal  more  than  that  uncom- 
fortable, as  I  will  by  and  by  explain.  My  shining 
patent-leather  valise  and  my  rival  shining  carpet-bag, 
(for  one  is  American  and  the  other  is  English,  and  so 
I  call  them  my  John  and  Jonathan,)  are  put  into  the 
compartment  and  piled  up  on  the  seat  before  me ;  my 
overcoat,  neatly  folded,  is  put  upon  the  uncushioned 
oak  seat  for  me  by  the  obliging  porter.  In  spite  of 
my  determination  to  fee  none  of  the  railway  servants, 
I  did  slip  a  sixpence  into  his  hands,  and  he  did  shut 
his  fingers  upon  it  without  apparent  pain. 

And  now,  the  bustle  over — for,  true  to  American 
habits,  I  became  quite  eager,  and  stepped  about  much 
more  lively  than  there  was  any  need  for — I  will  watch 
other  people.  I  am  struck  with  the  ease  manifested. 
These  plump  people  will  not  sweat  themselves.  Nice 
old  gentlemen  walk  as  quietly  along  as  if  passing  out 
to  tea  in  their  own  houses.    The  railway  servants  in 


RIDE  TO  KENIL  WORTH. 


11 


uniform,  with  their  number  worked  in  white  upon 
their  coat-collars,  are  diligent,  but  very  measured  in 
their  functions.  One  is  stowing  this  man's  luggage  on 
the  top  of  the  car — for  large  baggage  goes  upon  the 
top,  and  small  stuff  goes  into  the  car  with  you;  another 
trundles  a  wheeled  basket  with  packages,  careful  to 
knock  no  one  down;  another  stops  respectfully  to 
answer  a  gentleman's  questions.  I  hear  no  shouting, 
see  no  racing  about,  hear  no  oaths  or  contentions ;  there 
is  no  higgling  for  fares,  but  every  thing  is  very  easy 
and  orderly.  Now  steps  out  a  man  with  the  largest  of 
hand-bells,  with  which  he*  gives  three  or  four  strokes, 
saying  as  plainly  as  words  could  say  it,  "  Get  into  the 
cars,  all  who  mean  to."  In  a  moment  more  he  strikes 
again,  and  chunk  comes  the  engine  into  connection  with 
'the  train.  Without  farther  signal  you  move  away  slowly 
out  of  the  station-house  and  thread  your  way  through  a 
perfect  maze  of  tracks. 

We  are  rushing  through  the  open  fields.  The  lots 
are  small,  seldom  of  more  than  one  or  two  acres,  divided 
by  hedges,  which,  for  the  most  part,  are  uncombed, 
ragged,  and  full  of  gaps ;  yet,  even  thus,  more  agreeable 
to  the  eye  than  rigid  fences.  Trees,  in  groups  of  two  or 
three,  but  more  often  in  rows  along  the  hedges,  have 
that  unvarying  dark,  almost  black,  green,  which,  thus  far, 
has  characterized  the  foliage  which  I  have  seen  about 
Liverpool,  Manchester,  and  Birmingham.  The  shades 
of  green  which  we  see  in  America,  and  the  liveliness 
and  airiness  of  foliage  seem  wanting.  But  the  eye  is 
never  weary  with  the  landscape.    As  we  drive  through 


12  RIDE  TO  KENIL  WORTH. 

the  cats,  the  bank  on  either  hand  is  carved  evenly  with  a 
perfect  slope  to  the  top,  and  is  there  ruffled  with  a  close- 
cut  hedge,  while  the  sides  are  grassed  down  to  the  road, 
and  the  edges  of  the  grass  cut  as  regularly  along  the 
whole  way  as  a  border  of  turf  in  a  gentleman's  garden. 
When  the  road  rises  above  the  surrounding  country,  the 
sides  of  it  are  planted ;  so  that  the  eye  is  cheered  with  a 
beautiful  arboretum,  in  which  are  elms,  maples,  moun- 
tain ash,  poplars,  and,  among  others,  a  beautiful  droop- 
ing tamarack  or  larch,  as  it  appears  to  my  eye.  The 
stations  are  little  gems  of  places.  The  way-stations,  out 
of  towns,  are  frequently  decorated  with  flowers  and 
miniature  pleasure-grounds.  If  there  be  a  bit  of  ground 
but  ten  feet  square,  it  is  a  turf-plat,  with  a  raised  bed 
cut  out  of  it,  or  cut  into  it,  on  which  are  displayed  fine, 
thrifty  tufts  of  flowers.  They  are  not,  either,  dumped 
down  just  as  it  may  happen;  but  are  arranged  with 
uniform  good  taste.  Thus  a  fuchsia,  two  or  three  feet 
high,  covered  with  brilliant  crimson  blossoms,  has  grow- 
ing behind  it  a  tuft  of  tall  grass,  upon  whose  vivid  green 
the  plant  is  admirably  contrasted.  Neat  little  spots  of 
pansies,  of  different  varieties,  foxglove,  marigolds,  ge- 
raniums, roses,  and,  always,  profusely,  the  fragrant 
minionette,  fill  up  the  bed. 

I  had  read  enough  of  English  agriculture  to  know 
very  well  that  there  was  much  waste  soil — fens,  sand- 
wastes,  etc.  But  I  had  read  and  heard  also  that  England 
was  a  garden.  This  expression,  as  more  poetical,  had 
clung  to  my  imagination ;  and  I  found  myself  a  little 
disappointed  when  I  came  upon  poor  and  neglected  lands 


KIDE  TO  KENIL  WORTH.  13 

and  waste  spots,  most  ungardenlike.  But  this  is  only 
one  of  a  hundred  things  which  teaches  me  how  much 
better  it  is  to  see  a  thing,  than  to  read  about  it  or  imagine 
it.  The  fields  of  grain  were  rapidly  changing  from 
green  to  a  golden  russet.  The  sickle,  in  a  few  days, 
will  grow  bright  in  its  work.  Fields  of  turnips,  planted 
in  long  rows,  straight  as  a  rule  could  draw  them,  are 
being  hoed  and  thinned  out  by  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren.   They  do  not  even  look  up  as  we  shoot  past  them. 

Bide  to  Kenilworth  Castle. 

Calling  for  a  cab,  I  started  from  Coventry  upon  a  five- 
miles  ride  to  Kenilworth.  The  road  was  smooth  as 
a  floor,  rising  and  falling  over  gentle  swells  of  ground, 
bordered  the  whole  way  with  oaks  and  elms.  The 
sky  above  was  perfectly  clear,  but,  all  around  the 
horizon,  banks  of  cloud  were  piled  up  in  huge  cliffs, 
rounded  masses,  but  at  the  edge  fleecy  and  melting  off 
to  a  mist.  Beautiful,  most  beautiful  are  the  fields,  some 
close  cut — for  haying  is  over — some  with  grain.,  and 
a  few  just  plowed.  The  hedges  are  full  of  flowers 
which  I  do  not  recognize.  And  now,  I  am  riding  to  a 
famous  old  castle.  I  shall  but  look  on  it  and  pass  on. 
Others  would  enjoy  this  more  than  I  shall.  It  requires 
a  store  of  historical  associations  ;  and  much  of  the  sen- 
timent of  veneration;  or  else  a  lively  relish  for  anti- 
quarian lore ;  none  of  which  have  I.  My  thoughts  were 
broken  by  «the  driver — honest  soul  !  — asking  to  what 
inn  he  should  go.    Yankee  like,  I  replied  by  asking 


14  RUIN'S  OF  KENILWORTH  CASTLE. 

where  it  was  best  to  go.  "  To  King's  Head,  sir."  "  Very 
well,  King's  Head  let  it  be."  We  turn  the  corner. 
Here  is  a  Lord's  carriage,  I  suppose,  just  before  us. 
Well,  he  h  as  as  much  right  to  go  to  Kenilworth  as 
I.  Paying  the  driver — not  so  honest  a  soul  after  all — 
two  shillings  more  than  he  should  have  had,  because 
he  declined  giving  change,  under  a  plea  of  begging 
for  a  gratuity — I  sallied  forth  toward  the  ruins.  As 
the  road  wound  among  trees,  I  was  close  upon  them 
before  I  saw  them.  When  they  rose  up  before  me  I 
found  myself  trembling,  I  knew  not  why.  I  could 
not  help  tears  from  coming.  I  had  never  in  my  life 
seen  an  old  building.  I  had  never  seen  a  ruin.  Here, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt  the  presence  of  a 
venerable  ruined  castle!  At  first  I  did  not  wish  to 
go  within  the  walls  which  enclosed  the  grounds,  and 
so  strolled  a  little  way  along  the  outside.  I  can  not 
tell  what  a  strange  mingling  of  imagination,  *  and 
thoughts,  and  emotions,  took  possession  of  me.  At 
length  I  entered.  With  a  little  plan  of  the  building 
I  traced  the  rooms  from  point  to  point — the  great 
banqueting  Hall,  the  scene  of  wondrous  festivities 
which  shall  never  again  disturb  its  silence,  being  the 
most  perfectly  preserved  of  any  apartment.  I  was 
surprised  to  find  how  much  I  knew  of  Kenilworth  Cas- 
tle. Had  one  asked  me  as  I  rode  hither,  I  should  have 
replied  that  I  knew  only  that  it  was  old  and  famous, 
that  it  was  by  Scott  wrought  into  one  of  his  most  suc- 
cessful novels.  But  as  I  sat  in  a  room,  upon  a  fallen 
.stone,  one  incident  after  another  from  the  novel,  and 


RUINS  OF  KEKELWORTH  CASTLE.  15 

• 

from  history,  came  to  me,  one  name  after  another,  until 
I  seemed  to  be  visiting  an  old  and  familiar  place.  And 
now  I  am  sitting  in  what  was,  in  its  days  of  glory,  the 
Inner  Court,  and  leaning  against  Leicester's  buildings. 
Before  me  is  Cesar's  Tower — the  oldest,  the  most  mass- 
ive, and  the  best  preserved  of  any  part.  It  was  old  a 
thousand  years  ago.  Masses  of  ivy  cover  its  recessed 
angles  and  its  corners.  Through  its  arched  windows, 
where  the  walls  are  more  than  ten  feet  thick, — yea, 
sixteen  feet,  as  my  book  says, — I  see  trees  and  a  tangled 
mass  of  growing  vines,  rooted  upon  the  ruins  that  have 
fallen  and  enclosed  by  the  walls  of  its  former  halls. 
Through  the  square  windows  above  I  see  fleecy  clouds 
sailing  lazily  in  the  air.  In  what  was  the  "  three 
Kitchens n  are  growing  old  butternut  trees  and  haws. 
The  banqueting  hall,  whose  side  presented  four  beau- 
tiful windows,  has  but  two  of  them  in  a  tolerable 
state  of  preservation;  and  projecting  fragments  show 
in  outline  where  the  others  were.  I  stood  in  the  windows 
opposite  these,  where  Elizabeth,  and  hundreds  of  fairer 
and  better  women  than  she,  looked  out  upon  the  lake 
and  orchard.  But  how  different  were  my  thoughts  and 
theirs ;  the  scene  which  they  admired  and  that  which  I 
beheld !  From  beneath  these  crumbled  ruins  too,  utterly 
forgotten  now,  except  of  God,  shall  arise  many  forms 
to  stand  with  me  in  judgment.  Those  who  reveled 
here,  squire,  knight,  and  lady,  those  who  rebelled  and 
plotted,  they  who  built  and  those  who  destroyed,  how 
do  they  seem  to  me  now,  as  I  bring  them  back  in  im- 
agination!— and  how  strangely  contemptible  seems,  for 


16 


WARWICK  CASTLE. 


the  most  part,  that  greatness  which  was  then  so  great ! 
I  have  never  felt  such  solemnity  in  the  presence  of 
physical  creations.  But  these  stones,  these  old  gate- 
ways, these  mounds,  what  power  have  they  to  send  the 
soul  back  through  ages  of  time,  and  stir  it  up  from  its 
very  bottom  !  I  could  not  bear  the  approach  of  men. 
The  children  of  a  party,  visiting  like  myself,  came  frol- 
icking round  the  place  where  I  sat ;  but,  for  the  first 
time,  children  and  their  sports  pained  me.  I  would,  if 
I  could,  come  and  sit  in  this  court  at  evening — after 
sunset,  or  by  moonlight.  Then  should  I  not  see  flitting 
shadows  and  forms,  and  hear  low  airy  voices  ?  As  it 
was,  a  spirit  almost  spoke  to  me ;  for,  going  into  one  of 
the  tower  halls  of  Leicester's  building,  I  heard  a  clear 
ringing  sound,  and  a  tiny  echo  like  a  bird,  in  the  de- 
serted room.  Sure  enough  it  was  a  bird,  sitting  far  up 
upon  a  window-sill,  and  trying  his  voice  in  the  solitude. 
Fly  away,  little  friend,  this  is  no  place  for  you ;  the 
trees  and  hedges  are  vours,  but  not  this  old  solitude! 
At  last  I  awoke.  Three  hours  had  passed  like  a  dream. 
I  hastened  back  to  my  inn,  with  a  strange  sadness  of 
spirit,  which  I  did  not  shake  off  all  day.  Perhaps 
I  have  some  veneration  after  all,  if  it  were  rightly 
come  at. 

Warwick  Castle. 

Taking  a  cab,  I  started  for  Warwick.  The  same 
smooth  road,  the  same  trees,  the  same  beautifully  diver- 
sified fields,  and  the  same  blue  sky  over  them,  only  the 
clouds  are  all  islands  now,  floating  about  just  above  the 


WARWICK  CASTLE. 


17 


horizon;  but  I  have  not  the  same  light-hearted,  sing- 
ing spirit  which  I  had  in  the  morning ;  there  is  a  deep, 
yet  a  pleasant  sadness,  which  I  do  not  wish  to  shake 
off.  I  was  glad  that  I  had  visited  the  place  alone;  no 
one  should  go  except  alone.  While  at  Kenilworth, 
had  those  I  love  most  been  with  me,  we  would  have 
separated,  and  each  should  have  wandered  alone  up 
and  down  and  around  the  solemn,  old  place.  The 
landscape  is  full  of  soft  beauty,  yet  my  thoughts  are 
running  back  to  the  olden  time.  But  here  we  come 
to  Warwick!  What  bands  of  steel-clad  knights  have 
tramped  these  streets  before  us!  Here  is,  doubtless, 
the  old  gate  of  the  town  renewed  with  modern  stone. 
Ordering  dinner  at  six  o'clock,  I  start  for  the  castle, 
without  the  remotest  idea  of  what  I  shall  see.  Walk 
irig  along  a  high  park  wall  which  forms  one  part  of 
the  town,  or  rather  which  stops  the  town  from  extend- 
ing further  in  that  direction — the  top  covered  with  ivy, 
that  garment  of  English  walls  and  buildings — I  come 
to  the  gateway  of  the  approach.  A  porter  opens  its 
huge  leaf.  Cut  through  a  solid  rock,  the  road,  some 
twenty  feet  wide,  winds  for  a  long  way  in  the  most 
solemn  beauty.  The  sides,  in  solid  rock,  vary  from 
five  to  twenty  feet  in  height — at  least  so  it  seemed  to 
my  imagination — the  only  faculty  that  I  allowed  to 
conduct  me.  It  was  covered  on  both  hands  with  ivy, 
growing  down  from  above,  and  hanging  in  beautiful 
reaches.  Solemn  trees  on  the  bank,  on  either  side, 
met  overhead,  and  cast  a  delicious  twilight  down  upon 
my  way,  and  made  it  yet  softer  by  a  murmuring  of 


18 


WARWICK  CASTLE. 


their  leaves;  while  multitudes  of  little  birds  flew  about 
and  sang  merrily.  Winding  in  graceful  curves,  it  at 
last  brings  you  to  the  first  view  of  the  Castle,  at  a 
distance  of  some  hundred  rods  before  you.  It  opens  on 
the  sight  with  grandeur !  On  either  corner  is  a  huge 
tower,  apparently  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high ;  in 
the  center  is  a  square  tower,  called  properly  a  gateway; 
and  a  huge  wall  connects  this  central  access  with  the 
two  corner  towers.  I  stood  for  a  little,  and  let  the 
vision  pierce  me  through.  "Who  can  tell  what  he  feels 
in  such  a  place!  How,  especially,  can  I  tell  you — 
who  have  never  seen,  or  felt,  such  a  view  any  more 
than  I  had  before  this  time!  Primeval  forests,  the 
ocean,  prairies,  Niagara,  I  had  seen  and  felt.  But 
never  had  I  seen  any  pile  around  which  were  historic 
associations,  blended  not  only  with  heroic  men  and 
deeds,  but  savoring  of  my  own  childhood.  And  now, 
too,  am  I  to  see,  and  understand  by  inspection,  the 
things  which  Scott  has  made  so  familiar  to  all  as 
mere  words — moats,  portcullises,  battlements,  keeps  or 
mounds,  arrow-slit  windows,  watch-towers.  They  had 
a  strange  effect  upon  me ;  they  were  perfectly  new,  and 
yet  familiar  old  friends.  I  had  never  seen  them,  yet 
the  moment  I  did  behold,  all  was  instantly  plain;  I 
knew  name  and  use,  and  seemed  in  a  moment  to  have 
known  them  always.  My  mind  was  so  highly  excited 
as  to  be  perfectly  calm,  and  apparently  it  perceived  by 
an  intuition.  I  seemed  to  spread  myself  over  all  that 
was  around  or  before  me,  while  in  the  court  and  on 
the  walls,  or  rather  to  draw  every  thing  within  me.  I 


WARWICK  CASTLE. 


19 


fear  that  I  seem  crazy  to  you.  It  was,  however,  tho 
calmness  of  intense  excitement. 

I  came  up  to  the  moat,  now  dry,  and  lined  with  beau- 
tiful shrubs  and  trees,  crossed  the  bridge,  and  entered 
the  outer  gateway  or  arched  door,  through  a  solid  square 
tower.  The  portcullis  was  drawn  up,  but  I  could  see 
the  projecting  end.  Another  similar  gateway,  a  few 
steps  further  on,  showed  the  care  with  which  the  de- 
fense was  managed.  This  passed,  a  large  court  opened, 
surrounded  on  every  side  with  towers,  walls,  and  vast 
ranges  of  buildings.  Here  I  beheld  the  pictures  which 
I  had  seen  on  paper,  magnified  into  gigantic  realities. 
Drawings  of  many-faced,  irregular,  Gothic  mansions, 
measuring  an  inch  or  two,  with  which  my  childhood 
was  familiar,  here  stood  before  me  measuring  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  feet.  It  was  the  first  sight  of  a  real 
baronial  castle !  It  was  a  historic  dream  breaking  forth 
into  a  waking  reality. 

It  is  of  very  little  use  to  tell  you  how  large  the  court 
is,  by  feet  and  rods ;  or  that  Guy's  Tower  is  128  feet 
high,  and  Cesar's  Tower  147.  But  it  may  touch  your 
imagination,  and  wheel  it  suddenly  backward  with  long 
flight  and  wide  vision,  to  say  that  Cesar's  Tower  has 
stood  for  800  years,  being  coeval  with  the  Norman  Con- 
quest !  I  stood  upon  its  mute  stones  and  imagined 
the  ring  of  the  hammer  upon  them  when  the  mason 
was  laying  them  to  their  bed  of  ages.  What  were  the 
thoughts,  the  fancies,  the.  conversations  of  these  rude 
fellows,  at  that  age  of  the  world !  I  was  wafted  back- 
ward, and  backward,  until  I  stood  on  the  foundations 


20 


WARWICK  CASTLE 


upon  which,  old  England  herself  was  builded,  when  as 
yet  there  was  none  of  her.  There,  far  back  of  all  liter- 
ature, before  the  English  tongue  itself  was  formed, 
earlier  than  her  jurisprudence,  and  than  all  modern 
civilization,  I  stood,  in  imagination,  and,  reversing  my 
vision,  looked  down  into  a  far  future  to  search  for  the 
men  and  deeds  which  had  been,  as  if  they  were  yet  to 
be;  thus  making  a  prophesy  of  history ;  and  changing 
memory  into  a  dreamy  foresight. 

When  these  stones  were  placed,  it  was  yet  to  be  two 
hundred  years  before  Gower  and  Chaucer  should  be 
born.  Indeed,  since  this  mortar  was  wetted  and  ce- 
mented these  stones,  the  original  people,  the  Normans, 
the  Danes,  the  Saxons,  have  been  mixed  together  into 
one  people.  When  this  stone,  on  which  I  lean,  took 
its  place,  there  was  not  then  a  printed  book  in  England. 
Printing  was  invented  hundreds  of  years  after  these 
foundations  went  down.  When  the  rude  workmen  put 
their  shoulders  to  these  stones,  the  very  English  lan- 
guage lay  unborn  in  the  loins  of  its  parent  tongues.  The 
men  that  laughed  and  jested  as  they  wrought,  and  had 
their  pride  of  skill ;  the  architect,  and  the  lord  for  whose 
praise  he  fashioned  these  stones ;  the  villagers  that  won- 
dered as  they  looked  upon  the  growing  pile ;  why,  they 
are  now  no  more  to  men's  memories  than  the  grass  they 
trod  on,  or  the  leaves  which  they  cast  down  in  felling 
the  oak ! 

Against  these  stones  on  which  I  lay  my  hand,  have 
rung  the  sounds  of  battle.  Yonder,  on  these  very 
grounds,  there  raged,  in  sight  of  men  that  stand  where 


WARWICK  CASTLE. 


21 


I  do,  fiercest  and  deadliest  conflicts.  All  this  ground 
has  fed  on  blood. 

I  walked  across  to  Guy's  Tower,  up  its  long  stone 
stairway,  into  some  of  its  old  soldiers'  rooms.  The 
pavements  were  worn,  though  of  stone,  with  the  heavy 
grinding  feet  of  men-at-arms.  I  heard  them  laugh  be- 
tween their  cups,  I  saw  them  devouring  their  gross 
food,  I  heard  them  recite  their  feats,  or  tell  the  last 
news  of  some  knightly  outrage,  or  cruel  oppression  of 
the  despised  laborer.  I  stood  by  the  window  out  of 
which  the  archer  sent  bis  whistling  arrows.  I  stood 
by  the  openings  through  which  scalding  water  or  mol- 
ten lead  were  poured  upon  the  heads  of  assailants,  and 
heard  the  hoarse  shriek  of  the  wretched  fellows  from 
below  as  they  got  the  shocking  baptism.  I  ascended  to 
the  roof  of  the  tower,  and  looked  over  the  wide  glory 
of  the  scene,  still  haunted  with  the  same  imaginations 
of  the  olden  time.  How  many  thoughts  had  flown 
hence  beside  mine! — here  where  warriors  looked  out, 
or  ladies  watched  for  their  kmght's  return.  How  did  I 
long  to  stand  for  one  hour,  really,  in  their  position  and 
in  their  consciousness,  who  lived  in  those  days ;  and 
then  to  come  back,  with  the  new  experience,  to  my 
modern  self! 

I  walked,  in  a  dream,  along  the  line  of  the  westward 
wall,  surveyed  the  towers  begun,  but,  for  some  reason, 
left  unfinished ;  climbed  up  the  moat  and  keep,  steep 
enough,  and  densely  covered  with  trees  and  underbrush, 
to  the  very  top. 

Grand  and  glorious  were  the  trees  that  waved  in  the 


22 


RIDE  10  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


grounds  about  the  castle;  but,  though  some  of  them  had 
seen  centuries,  they  were  juvenile  sprouts  in  comparison 
of  these  old  walls  and  towers,  on  which  William  the 
Conqueror  had  walked,  without  thinking  a  word  about 
me,  I'll  warrant — in  which  matter  I  have  the  advantage 
of  him — following  in  his  footsteps  along  the  top  of  the 
broad  walls,  ten  times  more  lofty  in  my  transcendent 
excitement  than  ever  was  he  in  his  royal  excursion. 

Already  the  sun  was  drooping  far  down  the  west, 
and  sending  its  golden  glow  sideways  through  the  trees ; 
and  the  glades  in  the  park  were  gathering  twilight  as  I 
turned  to  give  a  last  look  at  these  strange  scenes.  I 
walked  slowly  through  the  gateway,  crossed  the  bridge 
over  the  moat,  turned  and  looked  back  upon  the  old 
towers,  whose  tops  reddened  yet  in  the  sun,  though  I 
was  in  deep  shadow.  Then,  walking  backward,  looking 
still,  till  I  came  to  the  woods,  I  took  my  farewell  of 
Warwick  Castle. 

It  was  half-past  six  when  I  left  the  hotel  for  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  Can  you  imagine  a  more  wonderful  trans- 
ition than  from  the  baronial  castles  to  the  peaceful 
village  of  Stratford?  Can  there  possibly  be  a  more 
utter  contrast  than  between  the  feelings  which  exercise 
one  in  the  presence  of  the  memorials  of  princely  estates 
—knightly  fortresses,  scenes  full  of  associations  of  phys- 
ical prowess — jousts  and  tournaments,  knights  and 
nobles,  kings  and  courtiers,  war  and  sieges,  sallies,  de- 
feats or  victories,  dungeons  and  palaces  now  all  alike 
in  confused  ruins,  and  the  peaceful,  silver  Avon,  with 
its  little  village  of  Stratford  snugged  down  between 


BIDE  TO  STBATFOBD-ON-AVON.  23 

smoothly  rounded  Mils ;  all  of  whose  interest  centers 
upon  one  man — gentle  Shakspeare  ?  And  what  do  you 
think  must  be  the  condition  of  a  man's  mind  who  in  one 
day,  keenly  excited,  is  entirely  possessed  and  almost  de- 
mented by  these  three  scenes  ?  The  sun  had  not  long 
set  as  I  drove  across  the  bridge  of  Avon,  and  stopped  at 
the  Eed  Horse  Inn.  As  soon  as  I  could  put  my  things 
away,  the  first  question  asked  was  for  Henley  Street 
It  was  near.  In  another  moment  I  was  there,  looking, 
upon  either  side,  for  Shakspeare's  house, — which  was 
easily  found  without  inquiry.  I  examined  the  kitchen 
where  he  used  to  frolic,  and  the  chamber  in  which  he 
was  born,  with  an  interest  which  surprised  me.  That  1 
should  be  a  hero-worshiper — a  relic-monger,  was  a  reve- 
lation indeed. 

Now  guess  where  I  am  writing?  You  have  the  place 
in  the  picture  before  you.*  It  is  the  room  where  Shak- 
speare was  born !  Two  hundred  and  eighty-six  years 
ago,  in  this  room,  a  mother  clasped  her  new-born  babe 
to  her  bosom ;  perhaps  on  the  very  spot  where  I  am 
writing!  Do  you  see  the  table  on  the  right  side  of 
the  picture?  It  is  there  I  am  sitting.  The  room  is  rep- 
resented as  it  was  before  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  the 
Shakspearian  society.  There  are  now  no  curtains  to  the 
window  which  you  see,  and  which  looks  out  from  the 
front  of  the  house  into  the  street ;  nor  are  there  any  pic- 
tures ;  but  the  room,  with  the  exception  of  the  two  side 


*  This  letter  was  written  upon  pictorial  note-paper  containing  views  in 
and  about  Stratford 


24 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON 


tables  and  a  few  old  chairs,  is  bare,  as  it  should  be; 
leaving  you  to  the  consciousness  that  you  are  surrounded 
only  by  that  which  the  eyes  of  the  child  saw  when  he 
began  to  see  at  all.  The  room  is  about  fifteen  feet  wide 
by  eighteen  in  length.  The  hight  is  not  great.  I  can 
easily  touch  the  ceiling  with  my  hand.  An  uneven 
floor  of  broad  oaken  plank  rudely  nailed,  untouched, 
probably,  in  his  day,  by  mat  or  carpet.  The  beams  in 
this  room,  as  also  throughout  the  house,  are  coarsely 
shapen,  and  project  beyond  the  plaster.  The  original 
building,  owned  by  Shakspeare's  father,  has  been  so 
changed  in  its  exterior,  that  but  for  the  preservation 
of  a  view  taken  in  1769,  we  should  have  lost  all 
idea  of  it.  It  was,  for  that  day,  an  excellent  dwelling- 
house  for  a  substantial  citizen,  such  as  his  father  is 
known  to  have  been.  It  was  afterwards  divided  into 
three  tenements,  the  center  one  remaining  in  possession 
of  Shakspeare's  kindred,  who  resided  there  until  1646. 
And  it  is  this  portion  that  is  set  apart  for  exhibi- 
tion ; — the  sections  on  either  side  of  it  having  been 
intolerably  11  improved"  with  a  new  brick  front,  by 
the  enterprising  landlord  of  the  "Swan  and  Maiden- 
head Inn,"  about  1820!  Its  exterior  has  grown 
rude  since  Shakspeare's  time,  for  the  old  print  rep- 
resents a  front  not  unpleasing  to  the  eye,  with  a 
gable  and  a  bay  window  beneath,  two  dormer  win- 
dows, and  three-light  latticed  windows  upon  the 
ground  story.  The  orchard  and  garden  which  were 
in  its  rear  when  purchased  by  Shakspeare's  father,  are 
gone,  and  their  place  is  occupied  by  dwellings  and 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  25 


stables.  There  is  not  a  spot  for  even  a  shrub  to 
grow  in! 

I  shall  spend  a  portion  of  three  clays  at  Stratford-on- 
Avon;  and  I  have  made  a  treaty  with  the  worthy  woman 
who  keeps  the  premises,  by  which  I  can  have  free  use  of 
the  room  where  I  now  write.  Never  have  I  had  such  a 
three  days'  experience !  Kenilworth,  Warwick,  and 
Stratford-on-Avon,  all  in  one  day  !  Then  I  am  to  spend 
a  Sabbath  here !  I  can  neither  eat  nor  sleep  for  ex- 
citement. If  my  journey  shall  all  prove  like  this,  it 
will  be  a  severer  taxation  to  recruit  than  to  stay  at 
home  and  labor. 

This  room,  its  walls,  the  ceiling,  the  chimney  front 
and  sides,  the  glass  of  the  window,  are  every  inch  covered 
and  crossed  and  re-crossed  with  the  names  of  those  who 
have  visited  this  spot. 

I  notice  names  of  distinction  noble  and  common,  of 
all  nations,  mingled  with  thousands  of  others  known 
only  to  the  inscribers.  In  some  portions  of  the  room  the 
signatures  overlay  each  other  two  or  three  deep.  I  felt 
no  desire  to  add  my  name,  and  must  be  content  to  die 
without  having  written  any  thing  on  the  walls  of  the 
room  where  Shakspeare  was  born.  I  must  confess,  how- 
ever, to  a  little  vanity — if  vanity  it  be.  A  book  is  open 
for  names  and  contributions  to  enable  the  Committee  for 
the  preservation  of  Shakspeare's  house  to  complete  the 
payment  of  the  purchase  money.  I  did  feel  a  quiet  satis- 
faction to  know  that  I  had  helped  to  purchase  and  pre- 
serve this  place.  Strange  gift  of  genius,  that  now,  after 
nearly  three  hundred  years,  makes  one  proud  to  con 
2 


2  6  STKATFORD-ON- AVON. 

tribute  a  mite  to  perpetuate  in  its  integrity  the  very 
room  where  the  noble  babe  was  born ! 

But  I  am  exhausted  and  must  sleep,  if  sleep  I  can. 
To-morrow  will  be  my  first  Sabbath  in  England — and 
that  Sunday  at  Stratford-on-Avon  I 


6 


II. 

A  SABBATH  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVOJT. 

August  4£h,  1850. 

My  dear  :  If  you  have  read,  or  will  read,  my 

letter  to  ,  yon  will  see  what  a  wonderful  day  was 

Saturday.  Coventry,  famous  for  the  legend  of  Godiva, 
of  which  Tennyson  has  a  pretty  version  ;  the  ruins  of 
Kenil worth  Castle,  the  stately  castle  of  Warwick  and 
its  park,  and  Stratford-on-Avon,  all  in  one  day !  Do 
you  wonder  that  my  brain  was  hot  and  my  sleep  fitful 
that  night?  1  tossed  from  side  to  side,  and  dreamed 
dreams.  It  was  long  after  midnight  before  I  began  to 
rest,  free  from  dreams;  but  the  sleep  was  thin,  and  I 
broke  through  it  into  waking,  every  half  hour. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  I  arose ;  the  sun  shone 
out  in  spots ;  masses  of  soft,  fleecy  clouds  rolled  about 
in  the  heaven,  making  the  day  even  finer  than  if  it  had 
been  all  blue.  I  purposed  attending  the  village  church, 
in  the  morning,  where  Shakspeare  was  buried ;  in  the 
afternoon  at  Shottery,  a  mile  across  the  fields,  where  the 
cottage  in  which  lived  Anne  Hathaway,  his  wife,  still 
stands-;  and  in  the  evening,  at  the  church  of  the  Holy 
Cross,  adjoining. the  Grammar  School ;  in  which,  as  the 
school  about  that  time  was  open,  and  for  a  period  kept, 
it  is  probable  that  Shakspeare  studied. 

Never,  in  all  the  labors  of  a  life  not  wont  to  be  idle 
upon  the  Sabbath,  have  I  known  such  excitement  or 


28  A  SABBATH  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON*. 

such  exhaustion.  The  scenes  of  Saturday  had  fired  me ; 
every  visit  to  various  points  in  Stratford-on-Avon  added 
to  the  inspiration,  until,  as  I  sallied  forth  to  church,  I 
seemed  not  to  have  a  body.  I  could  hardly  feel  my 
feet  striking  against  the  ground ;  it  was  as  if  I  were 
numb.  But  my  soul  was  clear,  penetrating,  and  ex- 
quisitely susceptible. 

You  may  suppose  that  every  thing  would  so  breathe 
of  the  matchless  poet,  that  I  should  be  insensible  to  re- 
ligious influences.  But  I  was  at  a  stage  beyond  that. 
The  first  effect,  last  night,  of  being  here,  was  to  bring  up 
suggestions  of  Shakspeare  from  every  thing.  I  said  to 
myself,  this  is  the  street  he  lived  in,  this  the  door  he 
passed  through,  here  he  leaned,  he  wandered  on  these 
banks,  he  looked  on  those  slopes  and  rounded  hills. 
But  I  had  become  full  of  these  suggestions,  and  acting 
as  a  stimulus,  they  had  wrought  such  an  ecstatic  state, 
that  my  soul  became  exquisitely  alive  to  every  influ- 
ence, whether  of  things  seen,  or  heard,  or  thought  of. 
The  children  going  to  church,  how  beautiful  they  ap- 
peared !  How  good  it  seemed  to  walk  among  so  many 
decorous  people  to  the  house  of  G  od.  How  full  of  mu- 
sic the  trees  were  ;  music,  not  only  of  birds,  but  of  winds 
waving  the  leaves  ;  and  the  bells,  as  they  were  ringing, 
rolled  through  the  air  a  deep  diapason  to  all  other 
sounds. 

As  I  approached  the  church,  I  perceived  that  we  were 
to  pass  through  the  churchyard  for  some  little  distance ; 
and  an  avenue  of  lime  trees  meeting  overhead  formed  a 
beautiful  way,  through  which  my  soul  exulted  to  go  up  to 


A  SABBATH  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  29 

the  house  of  God.  The  interior  was  stately  arid  beauti- 
ful— it  was  to  me,  and  I  am  not  describing  any  thing  to 
you  as  it  was,  but  am  describing  myself  while  in  the 
presence  of  scenes  with  which  through  books  you  are 
familiar.  As  I  sat  down  in  a  pew  close  by  the  reading- 
desk  and  pulpit,  I  looked  along  to  the  chancel,  which 
stretched  some  fifty  or  sixty  feet  back  of  the  pulpit  and 
desk,  and  saw,  upon  the  wall,  the  well-known  bust  of 
Shakspeare;  and  T  knew  that  beneath  the  pavement 
under  that,  his  dust  reposed. 

In  a  few  minutes,  a  little  fat  man  with  a  red  collar 
and  red  cuffs,  advanced  from  a  side  room  behind  the 
pulpit  and  led  the  way  for  the  rector,  a  man  of  about  fifty 
years — bald,  except  on  the  sides  of  his  head,  which  were 
covered  with  white  hair.  I  had  been  anxious  lest  some 
Cowper's  ministerial  fop  should  officiate,  and  the  sight 
of  this  aged  man  was  good.  The  form  of  his  face  and  head 
indicated  firmness,  but  his  features  were  suffused  with  an 
expression  of  benevolence.  He  ascended  the  reading- 
desk,  and  the  services  began.  You  know  my  mother 
was,  until  her  marriage,  in  the  communion  of  the  Epis- 
copal Church.  This  thought  hardly  left  me  while  I  sat, 
grateful  for  the  privilege  of  worshiping  God  through  a 
service  that  had  expressed  so  often  her  devotions.  I 
can  not  tell  you  how  much  I  was  affected.  I  had  never 
had  such  a  trance  of  worship,  and  I  shall  never  have 
such  another  view  until  I  gain  The  Gate. 

I  am  so  ignorant  of  the  church  service  that  I  can  not 
call  the  various  parts  by  their  right  names;  but  the 
portions  which  most  affected  me  were  the  prayers  and 


so 


A  SABBATH  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 


responses  which  the  choir  sang.  I  had  never  heard  any 
part  of  a  supplication — a  direct  prayer,  chanted  by  a 
choir  ;  and  it  seemed  as  though  I  heard  not  with  mv  ear, 
but  with  my  soul.  I  was  dissolved — my  whole  being 
seemed  to  me  like  an  incense  wafted  gratefully  toward 
God.  The  Divine  presence  rose  before  me  in  wondrous 
majesty,  but  of  ineffable  gentleness  and  goodness,  and  I 
could  not  stay  away  from  more  familiar  approach,  but 
seemed  irresistibly,  yet  gently,  drawn  toward  God. 
My  soul,  then  thou  did'st  magnify  the  Lord,  and  rejoice 
in  the  God  of  thy  salvation  !  And  then  came  to  my 
mind  the  many  exultations  of  the  Psalms  of  David,  and 
never  before  were  the  expressions  and  figures  so  noble 
and  so  necessary  to  express  what  I  felt.  I  had  risen,  it 
seemed  to  me,  so  high  as  to  be  where  David  was  when 
his  soul  conceived  the  things  which  he  wrote.  Through- 
out the  service,  and  it  was  an  hour  and  a  quarter  long, 
whenever  an  "  Amen  "  occurred,  it  was  given  by  the 
choir,  accompanied  by  the  organ  and  the  congregation. 
0,  that  swell  and  solemn  cadence  rings  in  my  ear  yet ! 
Not  once,  not  a  single  time  did  it  occur  in  that  service 
from  beginning  to  end,  without  bringing  tears  from  my 
eyes.  I  stood  like  a  shrub  in  a  spring  morning — every 
leaf  covered  with  dew,  and  every  breeze  shook  down 
some  drops.  I  trembled  so  much  at  times,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  sit  down.  O,  when  in  the  prayers  breathed 
forth  in  strains  of  sweet,  simple,  solemn  music,  the  love 
of  Christ  was  recognized,  how  I  longed  then  to  give 
utterance  to  what  that  love  seemed  to  me.  There  was 
a  moment  in  which  the  heavens  seemed  opened  to  me, 


A  SABBATH  AT  STKATFORD-ON-AVON.  81 

and  I  saw  the  glory  of  God  I  All  the  earth  seemed  to 
me  a  storehouse  of  images,  made  to  set  forth  the  Ke- 
deemer,  and  I  could  scarcely  be  still  from  crying  out. 
I  never  knew,  I  never  dreamed  before,  of  what  heart 
there  was  in  that  word  amen.  Every  time  it  swelled 
forth  and  died,  away  solemnly,  not  my  lips,  not  my 
mind,  but  my  whole  being  said — Saviour,  so  let  it  be. 

The  sermon  was  preparatory  to  the  Communion,  which 
I  then  first  learned  was  to  be  celebrated.  It  was  plain 
and  good ;  and  although  the  rector  had  done  many  things 
m  a  way  that  led  me  to  suppose  that  he  sympathized 
with  over  much  ceremony,  yet  in  his  sermon  he  seemed 
evangelical,  and  gave  a  right  view  of  the  Lord's  Supper. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  went  forward  to  commune 
in  an  Episcopal  Church.  Without  any  intent  of  my 
own,  but  because  from  my  seat  it  was  nearest,  I  knelt 
down  at  the  altar  with  the  dust  of  Shakspeare  beneath 
my  feet.  I  thought  of  it,  as  I  thought  of  ten  thousand 
things,  without  the  least  disturbance  of  devotion.  It 
seemed  as  if  I  stood  upon  a  place  so  high,  that,  like  one 
looking  over  a  wide  valley,  all  objects  conspired  to  make 
but  one  view.  I  thought  of  the  General  Assembly  and 
Church  of  the  First  Born,  of  my  mother  and  brother  an  d 
children  in  heaven,  of  my  living  family  on  earth,  of 
you,  of  the  whole  church  intrusted  to  my  hands  ; — they 
afar  off — I  upon  the  banks  of  the  Avon. 

In  the  afternoon  I  walked  over  to  Shottery,  to  attend 
worship  there,  but  found  that  I  had  been  misinformed, 
and  that  there  was  no  church  or  service  there.  I  soon 
found  the  cottage  where  Shakspeare's  wife,  Anne  Hath- 


82  A  SABBATH  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON". 

away,  was  born,  but  stayed  only  for  a  little  time,  mean- 
ing to  visit  it  more  at  my  leisure  on  Monday.  I  hastened 
back,  hoping  to  reach  the  village  church  in  Stratford  in 
season  for  part  of  the  service,  but  arrived  just  in  time  to 
meet  the  congregation  coming  out.  I  turned  aside  to 
the  churchyard  which  surrounds  the  church  on  every 
side.  As  I  stood  behind  the  church  on  the  brink  of  the 
Avon,  which  is  here  walled  up  to  the  hight  of  some 
eight  feet,  looking  now  at  the  broad  green  meadows"  be- 
yond, and  now  at  a  clump  of  "forget-me-nots"  growing 
wild  down  at  the  water's  edge,  and  wondering  how  I 
should  get  them  to  carry  back  to  my  friends,  I  was  ac- 
costed by  a  venerable  old  man,  whose  name  I  found 

afterwards  to  be  T  ,    He  was  not  indisposed  to  talk, 

and  I  learned  that  he  was  eighty-one  years  of  age ;  had 
lost  his  father  in  America  during  our  revolutionary  war, 
where  he  had  been  a  soldier ;  he  remembered  the  sad 
tidings,  being  then  eleven  years  old ;  he  had  resided  at 
Stratford  for  thirty  years ;  he  was  a  turner  and  carver 
by  trade  ;  he  had  lately  buried  his  wife,  and  had  come 
after  service  to  visit  her  grave.  We  walked  together 
along  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  he  repeating  some  familiar 
lines  of  poetry.  He  gave  me  various  local  information 
of  interest.  Among  other  things,  that  the  vicar  was  but 
recently  come  among  them ;  that  he  seemed  to  him  very 
"  whimsical,"  for,  said  he,  "  he  has  got  a  new  brass  thing 
to  hold  his  Bible,  down  in  front  of  the  reading-desk; 
and  he  stands  sometimes  with  his  back  to  the  people 
when  reading  parts  of  the  service,  and  has  a  good  many 
scholarly  tricks  about  him,  as  it  seems  to  me."    I  for- 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  33 

bore  making  any  remarks,  not  wishing  to  disturb  the 
associations  of  the  morning.  We  crossed  the  stream  by 
a  bridge,  walked  rip  through  the  broad,  smooth,  turfy 
meadows  upon  the  other  side,  and  on  reaching  my  inn, 
I  pressed  him  to  come  in  and  take  tea  with  me.  I  did 
so,  in  part  from  interest  in  him,  and  in  part  because  he 
had  mentioned,  when  I  apologized  for  using  his  time  in 
so  long  a  walk,  that  his  only  remaining  daughter  was 
gone  out  to  tea,  and  he  did  not  care  to  go  home  and  be 
alone.  So  we  took  tea  together ;  after  which  he  proposed 
waiting  upon  me  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Cross,  where 
evening  services  were  then  commencing.  The  interior 
of  the  church  was  plain ;  and  its  age  and  its  connection 
with  Shakspeare  constituted  its  only  interest  to  me.  I 
feel  greatty  obliged  to  the  venerable  old  man,  whose 
heart  seemed  guileless  and  whose  mind  was  simple. 
This  only  acquaintance  that  I  have  made  in  Stratford 
takes  nothing  away  from  the  romantic  interest  of  my 
experience  here. 

Monday,  August  5,  1850. — As  I  was  sitting  this 
morning  after  breakfast  writing  busily,  my  venerable 

friend  T  came  in  to  bid  me  good-morning,  and  to 

bring  me  a  relic,  a  piece  of  the  mulberry  tree  which 
stood  in  Shakspeare's  garden,  but  which  was  cut  down 
-  by  its  after  owner,  he  being  much  annoyed  by  relic- 
hunters.  He  finally  destroyed  the  house  itself.  The 
old  man  also  gave  me  a  snuff-box  which  had  been  made 
years  and  years  ago,  either  from  the  wood  of  this  same 
tree,  or  from  .a  tree  sprung  from  the  original.  He  avers 
2* 


Si  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

that  it  was  from  the  original  tree ;  that  he  obtained  it 
from  the  former  turner,  as  a  model  by  which  to  turn 
boxes,  and  that  he  was  assured  that  it  was  of  the  real, 
orthodox,  primitive  mulberry  tree !  I  do  not  doubt  it. 
I  will  not  doubt.  What  is  the  use  of  destroying  an 
innocent  belief  so  full  of  pleasure?  If  it  is  not  a  genu- 
ine relic,  my  faith  shall  make  it  so. 

One  or  Two  Hours  Later. — Alas !  I've  been  out, 
and  among  other  inquiries,  have  asked  after  my  old 

friend  T  .    I  find  him  to  be  living  in  the  poorhouse ! 

At  first,  I  confess  to  a  little  shame  at  intimacy  with  a 
pauper ;  but  in  a  moment  I  felt  twice  as  much  ashamed 
that  for  a  moment  I  had  felt  the  slightest  repugnance 
toward  the  old  man  on  this  account.  I  rather  believe 
his  story  of  the  tree  and  the  box  to  be  true ;  at  any  rate, 
I  have  a  mulberry  snuff-box  which  I  procured  in  Strat- 
ford-on- Avon ! 

Among  the  many  things  which  I  determined  to  see 
and  hear  in  England  were  the  classic  birds,  and  espe- 
cially the  thrush,  the  nightingale  and  the  lark  ;  after  these 
I  desired  to  see  cuckoos,  starlings  and  rooks.  While  in 
Birmingham,  going  about  one  of  the  manufactories,  I 
was  inquiring  where  I  might  see  some  of  the  first- 
named.  The  young  man  who  escorted  me  pointed  across 
the  way  to  a  cage  hanging  from  a  second-story  window 
and  said,  " There's  a  lark!"  Sure  enough,  in  a  little 
cage  and  standing  upon  a  handful  of  green  grass,  stood 
the  little  fellow,  apparently  with  russet  -brown  wings  and 
lighter  colored  breast,  ash  color,  singing  away  to  his  own 
great  comfort  and  mine.    The  song  reminded  me,  in 


BIRDS  OF  STRATFORD-ON-AVON", 


35 


many  of  its  notes,  of  the  canary  bird.  In  my  boyhood, 
I  had  innocently  supposed  that  the  lark  of  which  I  read 
when  first  beginning  to  read  in  English  books,  was  our 
meadow  lark ;  and  I  often  watched  in  vain  to  see  them 
rise  singing  into  the  air !  As  for  singing  just  beneath 
M  heaven's  gate"  or  near  the  sun,  after  diligent  observa- 
tion, with  great  simplicity,  I  set  that  down  for  a  pure 
fancy  of  the  poets.  But  I  had  before  this  learned  that 
the  English  sky-lark  was  not  our  meadow-lark. 

A  bird  in  a  cage  is  not  half  a  bird ;  and  I  determined 
to  hear  a  lark  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  if  one  could  be 
scared  up.    And  so,  early  this  morning  I  awoke,  ac« 
cording  to  a  predetermination,  and  sallied  out  through 
the  fields  to  a  beautiful  range  of  grounds  called  "  W  el- 
combe."  I  watched  for  birds  and  saw  birds,  but  no  larks. 
The  reapers  were  already  in  the  wheat  fields,  and 
brought  to  mind  the  fable  of  the  lark  who  had  reared 
her  young  there.    Far  over,  toward  the  Avon,  I  could 
see  black  specks  of  crows  walking  about,  and  picking 
up  a  morsel  here  and  there  in  the  grass.    I  listened  to 
one  very  sweet  song  from  a  tree  near  a  farm-house,  but 
it  was  unfamiliar  to  my  ear ;  and  no  one  was  near  from 
whom  I  might  inquire.     Besides,  the  plain  laboring 
people  know  little  about  ornithology,  and  would  have 
told  me  that  "it  is  some  sort  of  a  singing  bird,"  as  if  7 
thought  it  were  a  goose ;  and  so  I  said  to  myself,  I've 
had  my  labor  for  my  pains !    Well,  I  will  enjoy  the 
clouds  and  the  ribbon  strips  of  blue  that  interlace  them. 
I  must  revoke  my  judgment  of  the  English  trees ;  for  as 
I  stood  looking  over  upon  the  masses  of  foliage,  and  the 


36 


SHOTTERY. 


single  trees  dotted  in  here  and  there,  I  could  see  every 
shade  of  green,  and  all  of  them  most  beautiful,  and  as 
refreshing  to  me  as  old  friends.  After  standing  awhile 
to  take  a  last  view  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  from  this  high 
ground,  and  the  beautiful  slopes  around  it,  and  of  the 
meadows  of  the  Avon,  I  began  to  walk  homeward,  when 
I  heard  such  an  outbreak  behind  me,  as  wheeled  me 
about  quick  enough ;  there  he  flew,  singing  as  he  rose, 
and  rising  gradually,  not  directly  up,  but  with  gentle 
slope — there  was  the  free  singing  lark,  not  half  so  happy 
to  sing  as  I  was  to  hear !  In  a  moment  more,  he  had 
reached  the  summit  of  his  ambition,  and  suddenly  fell 
back  to  the  grass  again.  And  now,  if  you  laugh  at 
my  enthusiasm,  I  will  pity  you  for  the  want  of  it.  I 
have  heard  one  poet's  lark,  if  I  never  hear  another,  and 
am  much  happier  for  it. 

If  you  will  wait  a  moment  or  two,  till  I  can  break- 
fast, you  shall  have  the  benefit  of  a  stroll  over  to  Shot- 
tery — a  real  old  English  village.  I  walked  over  there 
yesterday  afternoon,  to  church,  as  I  told  you,  and  so 
can  show  you  the  way  without  inquiring  it  three  times, 
as  I  did  then.  Emerging  from  the  village,  we  take  this 
level  road,  lined  on  either  side  with  hedges  and  trees ; 
trees  not  with  naked  stems,  but  ruffled  from  the  hedge 
to  their  limbs  with  short  side  brush,  which  gives  them 
a  very  beautiful  appearance.  The  white  clover-turf 
under  foot  is  soft  as  velvet;  men  are  reaping  in  the 
fields,  or  going  past  us  with  their  sickles.  We  have 
walked  about  a  mile,  and  here  is  a  lane  turning  to  the 
left,  and  a  guide-board  pointing  to  "Shottery."    I  see 


/ 


SHOTTERY. 


37 


the  village.  A  moment's  walk  brings  us  to  a  very  neat 
little  brick,  gothic  cottage,  quite  pretty  in  style,  and 
painted  cream  color ;  it  is  covered  with  roses  and  fra- 
grant flowering  vines,  which  make  the  air  delicious. 
By  the  gate  is  a  Champney  rose — the  largest  I  ever  saw 
—its  shoots  reaching,  I.  should  think,  more  than  twelve 
feet,  and  terminated  with  clusters  of  buds  and  open  roses, 
each  cluster  having  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  buds.  Yes- 
•  terday  afternoon,  as  I  passed  this  same  cottage,  I  stopped 
to  admire  this  rose,  and  to  feed  upon  the  delicious  per- 
fume which  exhaled  from  the  grounds.  A  lady,  appar 
ently  about  forty-five,  and  two  young  women  about 
eighteen  and  twenty  years  of  age  respectively,  seeing  a 
stranger,  approached  the  gate.    I  bowed  and  asked, 

"  Is  this  a  Champney  rose?" 

"  It  is  a  Noisette,  sir !" 

"  I  thought  so  ;  a  Champney  of  the  Noisette  family ! 
Will  you  tell  me  what  flower  it  is  that  fills  the  air  with 
such  odor  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  it  must  be  something  in  the  gar- 
den." 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  the  way  to 
Anne  Hathaway's  cottage  ?" 

11  Take  the  first  lane  to  the  left,"  said  the  eldest  young 
woman,  pointing  to  the  right. 

"  The  lane  on  the  right,  you  mean." 

"  Oh  yes,  on  the  right,  but  I  do  not  know  where  the 
cottage  is  exactly !"  and  yet  it  lay  hardly  two  good 
stone-casts  from  where  they  stood.  You  can  see  its 
smoke  from  the  windows.    Bid  they  not  know,  or  were 


88 


ANNE  HATHAWAY 


they  ashamed  to  seem  too  familiar  with  a  stranger? 
But  William  Shakspeare,  eighteen  years  old  as  he  was, 
had  no  need  of  asking  his  way,  as  he  came  by  here  of  a 
Sabbath  evening  !  "What  were  the  thoughts  of  such  a 
mind  drawing  near  to  the  place  which  now  peeps  out 
from  the  trees  across  the  field  on  the  right?  "What 
were  the  feelings  of  a  soul  which  created  such  forms  of 
love  in  after  days  ?  I  look  upon  the  clouds  every  mo- 
ment changing  forms,  upon  the  hedges  or  trees,  along 
which,  or  such  like,  Shakspeare  wandered,  with  his 
sweet  Anne,  and  marvel  what  were  the  imaginations 
the  strifes  of  heart,  the  gushes  of  tenderness,  the  san- 
guine hopes  and  fore-paintings  of  this  young  poet's  soul. 
For,  even  so  early,  he  had  begun  to  give  form  to  thai 
which  God  created  in  him.  One  cannot  help  thinking 
of  Olivia,  Juliet,  Desdemona,  Beatrice,  Ophelia,  Imogen, 
Isabella,  Miranda  ;  and  wondering  whether  any  of  his 
first  dreams  were  afterward  borrowed  to  form  these. 
It  is  not  possible  but  that  strokes  of  his  pencil,  in  these 
and  other  women  of  Shakspeare,  reproduced  some  fea- 
tures of  his  own  experience.  Well,  I  imagine  that  Anne 
was  a  little  below  the  medium  hight,  delicately  formed 
and  shaped,  but  not  slender,  with  a  clear  smooth  fore- 
head, not  high,  but  wide  and  evenly  filled  out ;  an  eye 
that  chose  to  look  down  mostly,  but  filled  with  sweet 
confusion  every  time  she  looked  up,  and  that  was  used 
more  than  her  tongue  ;  a  face  that  smiled  oftener  than 
it  laugher],  but  so  smiled  that  one  saw  a  world  of  bright- 
ness within,  as  of  a  lamp  hidden  behind  an  alabaster 
shade  ;  a  carriage  that  was  deliberate  but  graceful  and 


# 

SHAKSPEARE.  39 

elastic.  This  is  my  Anne  Hathaway.  Whether  it  was 
Shakspeare's  I  find  nothing  in  this  cottage  and  these 
trees  and  verdant  hedges  to  tell  me.  The  birds  are 
singing  something  about  it— descendants  doubtless  of 
the  very  birds  that  the  lovers  heard,  strolling  together ; 
but  I  doubt  their  traditionary  lore.  I  did  not  care  to 
go  in.  There  are  two  or  three  tenements  in  the  long 
cottage  as  it  now  stands  ;  but  the  middle  one  is  that  to 
which  pilgrims  from  all  the  world  do  come  ;  and  though 
it  was  but  a  common  yeoman's  home,  and  his  daughter 
has  left  not  a  single  record  of  herself,  she  and  her  home 
are  immortal,  because  hither  came  the  lad  Shakspeare, 
and  she  became  his  wife.  I  leaned  upon  this  hedge 
yesterday  afternoon,  it  being  the  Sabbath,  and  looked 
long  at  the  place,  and  with  more  feelings  than  thoughts, 
or  rather  with  thoughts  that  dissolved  at  once  into  feel- 
ings. Here  are  the  rudest  cottages;  scenery,  beautiful 
indeed,  but  not  more  so  than  thousands  of  other  places ; 
but  men  of  all  nations  and  of  every  condition,  the 
mingled  multitude  of  refined  men  are  thronging  hither, 
and  dwell  on  every  spot  with  enthusiasm  unfeigned. 
Whatever  Shakspeare  saw,  we  long  to  see ;  what  he 
thought  of,  we  wish  to  think  of ;  where  he  walked, 
thither  we  turn  our  steps.  The  Avon,  the  church,  the 
meadows  lying  over  beyond  both ;  the  street  and  the 
room  where  he  was  born  ; — all  have  a  soul  imbreathed 
upon  them,  all  of  them  are  sacred  to  us,  and  we  pass  as 
in  a  dream  amid  these  things.  The  sun,  the  clouds,  the 
trees,  the  birds,  the  morning  and  evening,  moonlight  or 
twilight  or  darkness,  none  of  them  here  have  a  nature 


40 


SHAKSPEAKE. 


of  their  own ;  all  of  them  are  to  us  but  memorials  or 

suggestions  of  Shakspeare. 

God  gave  to  man  this  power  to  breathe  himself  upon 
the  world ;  and  God  gave  us  that  nature  by  which  we  feel 
the  inspiration.  Is  this  divine  arrangement  exhausted 
in  man's  earthly  history  ?  Are  we  not  to  see  and  to 
know  a  sublime  development  of  it  when  we  come  to  a 
knowledge  of  God  himself,  face  to  face  ?  Then,  not  a 
hamlet  alone,  a  few  cottages,  a  stream  or  spire  will  be 
suggestive ;  but  throughout  the  universe,  every  crea- 
ture and  every  object  will  breathe  of  God.  Not  of  his 
genius,  as  Stratford-on-Avon  speaks  of  Shakspeare ;  but 
of  every  trait  of  character,  every  shade  of  feeling,  every 
attribute  of  power ;  of  goodness,  love,  mercy  and  gen- 
tleness, magnanimity,  exquisite  purity,  taste,  imagina- 
tion, truth  and  justice.  May  we  know  this  revelation  ; 
walk  amid  those  scenes  of  glory,  and  know  the  rapture 
of  feeling  God  effulge  upon  us  from  everything  which 
his  heart  has  conceived,  or  his  hand  fashioned!  But 
chiefly  may  we  see  that  noontide  glory  when  we  shall 
gaze  unabashed  upon  his  unobstructed  face. 


Ill 


OXFORD. 

Dear  -  .    Did  I  ever  dream  of  writing  you  from 

this  renowned  seat  of  learning,  memorable  in  history, 
the  residence  of  good  King  Alfred,  the  birthplace  of 
Eichard  Cceur  de  Lion,  the  burning  place  of  Latimer, 
Eidley,  and  Oranmer,  and  the  place  where  many  among 
the  greatest  historical  men  were  educated?  But  I  must 
go  back  a  little,  for  I  believe  I  have  said  nothing  in 
either  of  my  letters  to  others,  of  my  route  hither. 

I  send  you  a  forget-me-not  which  was  gathered  from 
'  the  edge  of  the  river  Avon,  just  beneath  the  wall  which 
divides  the  face  of  the  churchyard  from  the  water. 
These  little  beauties  awakened  me  from  a  dream  by 
their  meek  looks,  and  I  determined  to  send  this  one  to 
you.  To  climb  down  the  wall  was  easy  enough,  too  easy 
for  a  man  who  did  not  love  wetting.  I  cast  about  for 
expedients.  For,  you  must  know  that  the  river  washes 
the  very  wall,  and  that  a  little  bit  of  soil,  scarcely  a  foot 
across,  had  formed  in^ne  spot  and  proclaimed  its  tri- 
umph by  wearing  these  tufts  of  flowers  for  its  feather. 
I  studied  the  wall,  speculated  upon  my  relative  position 
to  the  water  and  flowers,  should  I  reach  such  and  such 
a  chink.  I  partly  climbed  down,  and  wholly  clam- 
bered back  again,  satisfied  that  it  was  easier  to  get  my- 
self in,  than  to  get  the  flowers  out.    My  courage  rose 


42  OXFORD. 

with  the  difficulty.  Have  them  now  I  would,  if  I  was 
obliged  to  swim  for  them.  I  walked  down  to  the  mill, 
a  little  below,  and,  crossing  over,  returned  up  the  other 
bank,  opposite  to  them.  They  seemed  to  my  wistful 
looks  further  off  than  ever.  Happily,  before  attempt- 
ing the  Hellespont,  Hero-like,  I  espied  someway  up  the 
Avon,  a  boat  in  charge  of  two  young  men,  and  easily  en- 
gaged them  to  put  me  across  to  the  coveted  treasure. 
Though  very  rough  in  their  exterior,  the  fellows  had 
some  heart ;  and  when  they  saw-  what  I  would  be  at, 
they  took  great  pains  not  to  crush  the  gems  with  the 
bow  of  the  boat,  and  quite  eagerly  helped  me  to  gather 
every  stalk.  You  know  the  story  of  this  flower  and 
its  name  ?  A  knight,  walking  in  his  armor,  with  his 
lady-love,  attempted,  at  her  wish,  just  such  a  feat  as  I 
had  declined, — for  the  want  of  his  motive.  While 
reaching  down  for  the  flowers  he  slipped,  and  was 
plunged  into  the  deep  stream,  hopelessly  weighed 
down  by  his  armor.  As  he  sank  he  threw  the  flowers 
toward  the  bank,  crying,  "  Forget  me  not." 

The  morning  on  which  I  mounted  the  coach-top  for 
Oxford  was  bright.  The  heavens  were  beautiful,  and 
the  earth  was  beautiful.  The  past  was  grateful  to  recol- 
lection ;  the  future  was  hopeful.  « Indeed,  I  was  in  har- 
mony with  everything — with  the  driver,  the  passengers, 
the  horses,  the  fields  with  their  herds,  the  trees  and 
hedges.  To  be  sure,  I  maintained  a  grave  and  reserved 
exterior,  all  the  way ;  but  my  heart  laughed  and  sung 
at  every  step.  We  rode  through  Woodstock,  and 
passed  by  Blenheim,  the  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Marl- 


OXFORD. 


43 


borough.  I  could  not  gratify  my  wish  to  go  over  the 
grounds  and  house,  as  it  chanced  not  to  be  one  of  the, 
days  on  which  visitors  are  allowed. 

In  drawing  near  to  Oxford,  I  felt  the  zeal  going  up 
m  the  thermometer ;  and  dusky  shadows  of  olden  his- 
tories began  to  arise.  I  had  a  distinct  picture  of  the 
place  in  my  mind,  at  least  of  the  University.  I  im- 
agined it  to  be  a  group  of  buildings,  say  eight  or  ten  in 
number,  opening  upon  a  common  court,  not  unlike  the 
cotton-factory  style  of  architecture  which  prevails  in 
New-England  Colleges.  I  had  no  very  distinct  idea  of 
their  number  or  extent,  but  a  clear  impression,  that, 
more  or  fewer,  they  were  grouped  together  upon  some 
one  spot. 

Accordingly,  I  inquired  with  innocent  simplicity  of 
a  gentleman  next  to  me,  in  what  part  of  the  town  the 
University  buildings  were,  and  was  answered  promptly, 
"In  every  part;  they  are  scattered  all  over  the  city." 

Imagine,  then,  a  city  of  25,000  inhabitants,  not  with 
narrow  streets,  and  continuous  stone  houses  and  shops, 
like  commercial  cities ;  nor  yet,  like  a  rural  city,  full 
of  yards  and  gardens;  but  something  distinct  from 
either,  and  peculiar — a  city  of  castles  and  palaces  i 

The  University  comprises  twenty  distinct  Colleges, 
and  five  Halls.  The  Colleges  are  incorporated ;  pos- 
sessing their  own  rights,  buildings,  grounds,  revenues, 
laws,  and  officers.  The  Halls  are  not  incorporated,  or 
endowed  with  estates ;  but,  in  other  respects,  are  not 
materially  different  from  the  Colleges.  Here,  then,  are 
twenty-five  suites  of  buildings  distributed  throughout 


44 


OXFORD  UNIVERSITY. 


the  city.  You  must  not  for  a  moment  imagine  a  strait- 
sided,  bald,  rectangular,  five-story  building.  Exorcise 
all  such  brick  parallelograms  from  your  thoughts ; 
and  call  up  instead  images  of  castles,  palaces,  ornate 
galleries,  and  atheneums;  and  that  too  of  the  most 
imposing  dimensions.  .  The  buildings  of  Magdalen 
College  cover  eleven  acres;  and  of  gardens  and  dec- 
orated grounds,  there  are  one  hundred  acres  more  ! 
Christ  Church  College  is  much  more  extensive  than 
this.  You  would  suppose  yourself  under  the  battle- 
ments of  an  old  warlike  castle.  The  front  line  of  wall 
is  four  hundred  feet,  with  turrets,  bastions,  and  a  huge 
octagonal  tower  for  a  gateway.  The  College  buildings 
are  arranged  in  systems  of  quadrangles,  called  familiarly 
quads. 

Thus  a  central  plat  of  ground  is  inclosed  on  every 
side  by  the  magnificent  and  continuous  College  struc- 
tures, running  four  hundred  by  about  two  hundred  and 
sixty  feet ;  and  this  forms  the  Great  Quadrangle.  A 
huge  gateway  opens  out  of  this  into  another  such  quad- 
rangle, named  the  Peckwater,  but  of  less  dimensions; 
and  the  Canterbury  Quadrangle,  again,  opens  out  of  this. 
The  buildings  are  of  different  styles  of  architecture.  In- 
deed, Christ  Church  College  represents  almost  the  history 
of  architecture,  from  the  times  of  the  Saxons  to  Sir 
Christopher  Wren.  And  the  diversities  and  contrasts  of 
architecture  increase  the  impression  of  vastness  and  end- 
less extent. 

Now,  although  Christ  Church  College  and  Magdalen' 
College  are  the  most  extensive,  yet,  to  an  eye  not  ac- 


THE  COLLEGES. 


45 


customed  to  measurement,  and  whose  lenses  are  some- 
what inclined  to  magnify  through  the  bewildering  ex- 
citement of  novelty  and  surprise,  the  smallest  seem 
scarcely  less  than  the  largest.  And  you  may  conceive 
what  impression  would  be  made  upon  my  mind  in  my 
first  walk,  alone,  at  sunset  and  twilight,  through  a 
strange  city,  composed  so  largely  of  such  magnificent 
palatial  structures,  in  which  had  once  dwelt  and  studied 
so  many  names  most  honorable  and  prominent  in  Eng- 
lish history.  I  left  my  inn  almost  at  once  after  my 
arrival,  and  was  glad  to  be  alone :  to  be  unquestioned : 
to  go  wherever  chance  took  me ;  to  gaze  on  the  differ- 
ent piles,  as  they  came  one  after  another,  until  the 
strangeness  grew  almost  into  enchantment !  The  twi- 
light as  it  gently  settled  down  made  tower  and  spire  seem 
gigantic ;  the  dusky  stones  of  the  ancient  structures  re- 
ceded into  illusory  distances ;  and  the  somber  pedi- 
ments, which  yet  retained  a  slight  silvery  glow  from 
the  West,  seemed  lifted  up  to  an  incredible  hight. 
By  and  by  the  buildings  sunk  into  darkness  and  disap- 
peared, except  where  the  now  multiplying  lights  in 
some  principal  streets,  threw  another  and  scarcely  less 
bewitching  glare  upon  them.  The  same  causes  which 
invoked  the  imagination  in  respect  to  single  buildings, 
in  like  manner  produced  an  impression  in  respect  to 
the  extent  of  the  city,  which  daylight  could  not  have 
borne  out.  f 

Bright  and  early  the  next  day,  I  took  an  ante-pran- 
dial stroll.  Every  thing  was  changed.  The  same  build- 
ings were  different;  there  was  the  soft,  somber  evening 


46 


THE  COLLEGES 


effect  in  my  memory,  and  the  clear  lines  of  accurate 
daylight  in  my  eye ;  and  the  old  and  new  impressions 
disputed  with  each  other.  I  had  gained  a  pretty  correct 
topographical  knowledge  of  the  city,  and  had,  by  my 
guide-book,  identified  several  of  the  most  noticeable 
Colleges  before  returning  to  breakfast.* 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  put  in  the  charge  of  a 
young  lawyer,  by  the  good  offices  of  the  same  stranger 
that  had  ridden  with  me  upon  the  coach  from  Wood- 
stock, and  at  whose  suggestion  I  had  lodged  at  the 
Miter  Inn.  He  was  not  only  a  fine-hearted,  generous, 
and  intelligent  man,  but  had  the  advantage  of  knowing 
from  boyhood  all  the  under  officers,  janitors,  stewards, 
butlers,  etc.,  of  the  various  Colleges.  It  was  vacation, 
and  the  buildings  were  for  the  most  part  vacant.  The 
frank  and  gay  face  of  my  guide  seemed  a  charm  to 
open  doors  seldom  open  to  visitors.  Had  I  come  to 
Oxford  to  take  an  honorary  degree,  I  should  have  failed 
to  see  much  that  was  shown  to  me  now.    An  inspec- 


*  The  following  are  the  names,  and  dates  of  the  founding,  of  the  Colleges 
in  the  University  of  Oxford.  The  number  of  officers,  members  on  founda- 
tions, and  students,  at  the  time  we  were  there,  was  said  to  be  more  than  Jive 
thousand.  Merton  College,  founded  1264.  University  College,  about  1 249. 
Baliol  College,  about  1263.  Exeter  College,  1314.  Oriel  College,  about 
1326.  Queen's  College,  1340.  New  College,  1378.  Lincoln  College, 
about  1479.  All  Souls'  College,  1437.  Magdalen  College,  1457. 
Brazen  Nose  College,  1509,  named  from  the  circumstance  of  a  brazen 
nose  with  a  ring  in  it,  swinging  as  a  knocker  on  th^  Hall,  whose  site  it  oc- 
cupies, and  whose  name  it  also  inherited.  Corpu3  Christi  College,  1516. 
Christ  Church  College,  founded  by  Wolsey,  1524.  Trinity  College,  1564, 
St.  John's  College,  1557.  Jesus'  College,  1546.  Wadham  College,  1618 
Pembroke  College,  .    Worcester  College,  1714. 


CHRIST  CHURCH  COLLEGE 


47 


tiou  of  the  kitchens,  the  butteries,  the  dining-halls,  and 
a  rehearsal  of  the  habits  of  both  students  and  professors, 
satisfied  me  that  there  was  most  excellent  drill  of  the 
animal  man,  whatever  befell  the  moral  and  intellectual 
development.  The  plump,  jovial,  rubicund  professors 
of  cuisine  were  obligingly  communicative,  giving  savory 
explanations  of  every  thing  that  seemed  strange  to  me. 
They  courteously  proffered  me  a  complimentary  mutton 
chop ;  and  gave  me  a  knowing  laugh  when  I  declined 
beer  and  wine,  as  articles  that  I  never  employed.  A 
thing  more  utterly  inconceivable  than  a  deliberate  re- 
jection of  good  wine  and  beer  could  not  be  told  to  an 
Oxford  butler. 

At  Christ  Church  College  kitchen,  I  was  shown  an 
enormous  gridiron,  nearly  five  feet  square ;  formerly 
used  before  the  introduction  of  ranges.  I  could  not  but 
imagine  a  fancy  heretic,  broiling  upon  it,  like  a  shrunk 
robin.  They  seemed  hurt  at  the  suggestion,  assured 
me  that  it  had  never  served  such  uses,  and  swung  it 
aside  by  its  chain  which  suspended  it,  as  if  the  associa- 
tions- of  such  a  relic  had  been  ungenerously  offended. 

When  we  speak  of  Dining  Halls,  pray  dismiss  all 
modern  halls  or  hotel  saloons  from  your  mind.  Sum- 
mon up  rather  the  noblest,  cathedral-like  apartment, 
of  the  highest  architectural  embellishments :  impressive 
by  its  very  space,  and  hung,  often  profusely,  with  por- 
traits and  pictures.  You  would  suppose  upon  entering 
that  you  saw  tables  stretched  in  a  gothic  church,  or  in 
some  vast  library,  or  in  some  picture  gallery.  The  Hall 
of  Jesus  College  is  thirty  by  sixty  feet  in  dimensions, 


18 


CARVED  STONE 


with  an  arched  ceiling,  designed  by  Sir  Christopher 
Wren.  That  of  New  College  is  seventy-eight  by  thirty- 
five  feet.  Wadham  College  Hall  is  eighty-two  by 
thirty-five,  and  thirty-seven  feet  high.  The  Hall  of 
Christ  Church  College  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in 
length,  forty  feet  wide,  and  fifty  feet  high,  having  about 
one  hundred  and  twenty  pictures  upon  its  walls. 

These  quite  put  to  shame  my  ignoble  ideas  of  College 
dining-halls ; — as  the  larders  and  butteries  did  the  fare 
of  College  commons.  These  Colleges  resemble  Ameri- 
can institutions  in  the  fact  that  they  are  resorts  of  stu- 
dents, that  they  have  corps  •  of  tutors  and  professors, 
rooms  and  dormitories,  libraries  and  halls ;  but,  a  visitor 
wandering  through  them  in  vacation,  would  think  them 
literary  hotels,  as  in  many  respects  they  really  are. 

One  who  has  only  seen  the  plain  stone  of  American 
buildings,  uncarved,  and  scarcely  chiseled,  will  be 
struck  with  the  carving  and  decorations  in  stone.  The 
cornices  were  not  wood  painted  like  stone,  but  stone 
curled,  and  carved — as  if  in  olden  times  cutting  stones 
had  been  the  easiest  of  all  occupations.  We  are  accus- 
tomed to  decorations  in  paste,  in  wax,  in  plaster,  in  wood. 
We  do  not  think  it  strange  to  see  picture-frames  wreathed 
with  vines,  or  furniture  sculptured  into  flowers  and 
fruits  ;  but  the  time  and  expense  required  for  working 
stone  has  forbid  such  ornaments  in  America,  with  the 
exception  of  execrable  carving  on  lamentable  grave- 
stones, that  can  not  but  keep  alive  a  sense  of  pain,  in 
the  spectator,  as  long  as  they  last. 

In  Oxford,  in  all  the  Colleges  and  other  public  build- 


COLLEGE  GROUNDS 


49 


ings,  uncarved  stone  would  seem  to  be  accounted  as 
almost  unseemly.  The  doorways,  the  window-sills  and 
caps,  the  cornices,  the  capitals,  the  pediments,  are  pro- 
fusely decorated.  Grotesque  heads,  lion's  faces,  satyrs, 
distorted  human  faces,  birds,  flowers,  leaves,  rosettes, 
seize  upon  every  projection  of  the  Gothic  buildings. 
Where  the  buildings  represented  Greek  architecture, 
they  were  decorated  more  severely,  but  with  scarcely 
less  profusion  of  carving. 

I  was  even  more  delighted  with  the  grounds  and 
walks,  than  with  the  twilight  seclusion  of  the  cloistered 
rooms.  I  sat  down  in  the  recess  of  a  window,  in  one 
of  the  student's  rooms,  and  looked  out  into  an  exquisite 
nook,  with  a  large  mound,  not  unlike  some  of  our  coni- 
cal hills  in  the  rolling  lands  of  the  West,  planted  with 
shrubs  and  trees  to  the  very  top.  Is  there  any  thing 
more  bewitching  than  to  look  up,  beneath  the  branches 
of  trees,  upon  the  ascent  of  a  hill  ?  The  grass  was  like 
the  pile  of  velvet,  thick,  even,  deeply  green,  and  with  a 
crisp,  succulent  look,  that  made  you  feel  that  Nebu- 
chadnezzar had  not  so  bad  a  diet  after  all.  The  grounds 
were  laid  out  with  parterres  of  flowers,  clumps  of  trees, 
graveled  walks  artfully  traced  to  produce  the  utmost 
illusion,  vines,  and  upon  every  unsightly  object,  and 
along  the  stone  fence,  that  glorious  sheet  of  ivy  that, 
everywhere  in  England,  incases  walls  and  towers  in 
vegetable  emerald.  In  these  delicious  coverts,  birds 
hopped  about  in  literary  seclusion,  or  chatted  with  each 
other  in  musical  notes,  such  as  Jenny  Lind  might  be 
supposed  to  sing  to  her  sleeping  cradle,  or  to  a  frolick- 
3 


50 


LIBRARIES. 


ing  child.  It  is  a  very  paradise  of  seclusion.  Noise 
seemed  like  an  antediluvian  legend  as  I  sat  and  dreamed 
in  the  slumberous  stillness. 

Nor  was  I  flattered  by  the  painful  contrast  which  my 
memory  supplied  of  American  Colleges,  with  frigid 
rooms,  without  gardens  or  secluded  walks,  with  grounds 
undecorated  except  by  chips,  ashes,  and  the  dank  and 
molded  droppings  of  paper,  rags,  and  various  frag- 
ments of  nocturnal  feasts,  which  may  often  be  found 
beneath  the  windows,  among  rank  and  watery  weeds, 
on  the  neglected  side  of  College  buildings,  where  every 
side  is  neglected.  But,  if  all  the  stories  told  me  be 
true,  or  the  half  of  them,  cloistered  rooms  are  not  neces- 
sarily productive  of  profound  study,  any  more  than 
cloistered  cells  of  profound  piety.  The  Fellows  of  the 
Colleges  are  unmarried  men,  who  have  suites  of  rooms, 
ample  gustatory  provision  for  the  earthly  man,  and 
revenues  for  gentlemanly  support,  that  they  may  give 
themselves  utterly  to  study.  And  in  many  cases,  study, 
that  makes  other  men  lean,  is  blessed  to  these  fellows, 
even  as  was  the  simple  pulse  to  the  companions  of 
Daniel. 

•  One  can  scarcely  realize  the  treasures  of  literature 
and  of  art  which  are  gathered  into  this  city.  Beside 
the  libraries  of  each  College,  which  are  large,  there  in 
the  Bodleian  Library  with  books  and  manuscripts  enough 
to  turn  the  heads  of  the  whole  nation.  Each  College 
has  in  profusion,  beside  architectural  treasure,  busts 
and  statues  of  distinguished  men,  pictures  by  all  the 
great  masters  of  art,  in  great  numbers ;  prints,  coins,  and 


ENDOWMENTS. 


51 


literary  and  archaeological  curiosities  without  number, 
and  cabinets  of  natural  history.  I  stood  in  the  midst 
of  such  treasures  as  helpless  and  as  hopeless  of  ever 
looking  at  them  with  a  more  individual  recognition, 
as  I  was  when  I  first  trod  a  prairie,  journeying  from 
dawn  till  dark  through  the  dwarf  floral  groves,  and 
beheld  millions  of  acres  of  flowers.  I  passed  by  rare 
treasures  without  a  look,  which,  at  another  time,  would 
have  eagerly  occupied  hours.  The  mind  was  sated  with 
literary  riches. 

As  I  stood  beneath  the  arches  of  Christ  Church  Col 
lege,  I  was  impressed  with  the  immortality  of  earthly 
influence  when  rightly  embodied.  "Wolsey's  designs 
for  national  education  have  gone  through  generations 
performing  the  noblest  services,  and  perpetuating  among 
men'  the  blessings  which  his  life  and  personal  conduct 
failed  to  render  to  his  fellows.  His  endowments  have 
been  noble,  undying,  undecaying.  Nay,  Time,  that 
wastes  monuments  and  plucks  up  the  longest  lived 
forests,  has  but  consolidated  his  gifts  to  learning,  and 
renewing  their  strength  in  every  generation.  They  are 
stronger,  more  vigorous,  with  a  surer  hope  of  good  for 
the  future,  than  when  in  the  freshness  of  their  original 
youth.  It  were  not  an  unworthy  ambition  to  desire  such 
posthumous  influence,  having  one's  name  gratefully 
mentioned  through  hundreds  of  years,  amidst  scenes 
of  learning,  by  the  noblest  spirits,  who  were  deriving 
their  very  life  from  your  benefaction ! 

Every  one,  familiar  with  his  own  mind,  knows  how 
differently  that  subtile  and  mysterious  agency  worka 


52  pictures.  : 

within  him,  on  different  days.  But  I  never  felt  the 
difference  so  strikingly  as  since  I  have  been  ranging 
through  these  historic  places ;  and  I  find  that  the  keen, 
and  fine  excitement,  which  inevitably  steals  upon  one 
in  the  walks  and  galleries  of  these  venerable.  Colleges, 
is  precisely  of  the  kind  favorable  for  the  appreciation 
of  pictures.  They  cease  to  be  pictures.  They  are 
realities.  The  canvas  is  glass,  and  you  look  through 
it  upon  the  scene  represented  as  if  you  stood  at  a  win- 
dow. Nay,  you  enter  into  the  action.  For,  once  pos- 
sessed with  the  spirit  of  the  actors  or  of  the  scene, 
all  that  the  artist  thought  lives  in  you.  And  if  you  are 
left,  as  I  was  once  or  twice,  for  an  hour  quite  alone,  in 
the  halls,  the  illusion  becomes  memorable.  You  know 
the  personages.  You  mingle  in  the  action  as  an  actor. 
You  gaze  upon  the  Apostles  of  Gruido,  and  it  is  not  the 
ideal  head  that  you  see,  but  the  character,  the  life,  the 
career,  extend  in  shadowy  length  before  you.  At 
last  you  are  with  them!  No  longer  do  you  look 
through  the  eighteen  hundred  years  at  misty  shadows. 
The  living  men  have  moved  down  toward  you,  and 
here  you  are  face  to  face !  I  was  much  affected  by  a 
head  of  Christ ;  not  that  it  met  my  ideal  of  that  sacred 
front,  but  because  it  took  me  in  a  mood  that  clothed  it 
with  life  and  reality.  For  one  blessed  moment  I  was 
with  the  Lord.  I  knew  Him.  I  loved  Him.  My  eyes 
I  could  not  close  for  tears.  My  poor  tongue  kept 
silence,  but  my  heart  spoke,  and  I  loved  and  adored. 
The  amazing  circuit  of  one's  thoughts  in  so  short  a 
period  is  wonderful.    They  circle  round  through  all 


BODLEIAN  LIBRARY, 


53 


the  past,  an*]  up  through  the  whole  future,  and  both 
the  past  and  future  are  the  present,  and  are  one.  For 
one  moment  there  arose  a  keen  anguish,  like  a  shooting 
pang,  for  that  which  I  was,  and  I  thought  my  heart 
would  break  that  I  could  bring  but  only  such  a  nature 
to  my  Lord ;  but  in  a  moment,  as  quick  as  the  flash  of 
sunlight  which  follows  the  shadow  of  summer  clouds 
*  across  the  fields,  there  seemed  to  spring  out  upon  me, 
from  my  Master,  a  certainty  of  love  so  great  and  noble 
as  utterly  to  consume  my  unworth,  and  leave  me  shin- 
ing bright ;  as  if  it  were  impossible  for  Christ  to  love  a 
heart,  without  making  it  pure  and  beautiful  by  the 
resting  on  it  of  that  illuming  affection,  just  as  the  sun 
bathes  into  beauty  the  homeliest  object  when  he  looks 
full  upon  it.  But  why  should  I  seek  to  imprison  in 
words  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that  nothing  but  the 
heart  itself  had  power  to  utter  ?  Words  belong  to  the 
body.  But  when  we  are  "in  the  spirit,"  thoughts  and 
feelings  are  expressed  by  the  very  act  of  existing,  and 
syllable  themselves  by  their  own  pulsations. 

In  the  same  mood  I  stood  before  the  busts  and  por- 
traits of  England's  most  illustrious  names.  But  a 
volume  would  not  suffice  to  record  the  experience  of  a 
single  hour,  even  if  my  memory  could  compass  the 
blessed  illusion  with  words. 

Few  places  affected  me  more  than  the  Libraries,  and 
especially  the  Bodleian  Library,  reputed  to  have  half  a 
million  printed  books  and  manuscripts.  I  walked 
solemnly  and  reverently  among  the  alcoves  and  through 
the  halls,  as  if  in  the  pyramid  of  embalmed  souls.  It 


54 


BODLEIAN  LIBRARY 


was  their  life,  their  heart,  their  mind,  that  they  treas- 
ured in  these  book-urns.  Silent  as  they  are,  should  all 
the  emotions  that  went  to  their  creation  have  utterance, 
could  the  world  itself  contain  the  various  sound?  They 
longed  for  fame  ?  Here  it  is — to  stand  silently  for  ages, 
moved  .only  to  be  dusted  and  catalogued,  valued  only 
as  units  in  the  ambitious  total,  and  gazed  at,  occasionally, 
by  men  as  ignorant  as  I  am,  of  their  name,  their  place,  ■ 
their  language,  and  their  worth.  Indeed,  unless  a  man 
can  link  his  written  thoughts  with  the  everlasting  wants 
of  men,  so  that  they  shall  draw  from  them  as  from  wells, 
there  is  no  more  immortality  to  the  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings of  the  soul  than  to  the  muscles  and  the  bones.  A 
library  is  but  the  soul's  burial-ground.  It  is  the  land 
of  shadows. 

Yet  one  is  impressed  with  the  thought,  the  labor, 
and  the  struggle,  represented  in  this  vast  catacomb  of 
books.  Who  could  dream,  by  the  placid  waters  that 
issue  from  the  level  mouths  of  brooks  into  the  lake,  all 
the  plunges,  the  whirls,  the  divisions,  and  foaming 
rushes  that  had  brought  them  down  to  the  tranquil 
exit  ?  And  who  can  guess  through  what  channels  of 
disturbance,  and  experiences  of  sorrow,  the  heart  passed 
that  has  emptied  into  this  Dead  Sea  of  books  ? 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  like  one  who  walked  in 
the  forests  of  the  tropics,  astounded  at  the  gigantic 
growths,  and  at  their  uselessness.  Centuries  had  nursed 
them  to  their  present  stature ;  but  not  one  in  ten  thou- 
sand of  them  will  ever  be  sought  for  commerce  or  for 
use.    Where  they  stand,  they  will  drop,  and  where 


TAYLOR  AND  RANDOLPH  GALLERY, 


55 


they  fall  they  will  decay.  It  is  always  so — life  striking 
its  roots  into  the  dead,  and  feeding  upon  decay. 

I  visited  the  Taylor  and  Eandolph  Gallery  in  Oxford, 
in  which  are  casts  of  all  of  Chantrey's  statues  and  busts ; 
and  many  original  drawings  of  Raphael  and  Michael 
Angelo !  One  hundred  and  ninety  sketches  and  draw- 
ings in  pencil,  ink,  and  by  other  means,  of  Eaphael ;  and 
eighty-seven  by  Angelo !  They  were  from  their  rude 
school-boy  essays  to  their  latest  efforts !  Here  was  the 
sketch  from  which  Angelo  drew  the  Last  Judgment ; 
hands,  feet,  faces,  the  body  in  every  conceivable  atti- 
tude, the  face  expressing  mirth,  joy,  surprise,  grief. 
These  were  in  some  respects  even  more  interesting  than 
the  after  works  would  have  been  for  which  these  pre- 
pared the  way.  For  here  I  saw  the  idea  as  it  originally 
*  dawned  upon  the  great  mind,  and  was  instantly  dashed 
down  upon  paper.  Sometimes  you  see  the  very  germ 
and  the  growth  of  it — as  when  at  first  it  was  a  faint  pen- 
sketch;  then,  on  the  same  sheet,  another  and  another 
thought  were  added,  and  finally  all  of  them  grouped 
together.  I  could  have  cried  with  regret  at  being 
obliged  to  race  through  these  collections  like  a  hound 
on  a  hunt.  It  seemed  almost  degrading  to  me  to  be 
anything  other  than  obedient  to  the  high  attractions 
which  drew  me;  yet,  many  things  burned  themselves 
upon  my  imagination  never  to  grow  out  or  grow  over ! 
But  I  must  leave  Oxford — though  I  have  scarcely 
touched  the  mass  of  impressions  which  I  there  re- 
ceived. 


IV 


THE  LOUVRE — LUXEMBOURG  GALLERY. 

Paris,  August,  1850. 

#  *  *  Next  I  visited  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  where 
the  Archbishop  of  Paris  was  killed  while  endeavoring 
to  stop  the  fighting  in  the  Kevolution  of  1848, 1  believe. 
Thence  I  went  to  the  Jar  din  des  Plantes,  which,  beside 
its  most  admirable  collection  of  plants,  has  a  noble 
zoological  collection,  a  museum  of  natural  history  that 
well  nigh  epitomises  the  living  tribes  of  the  earth,  to- 
gether with  mineralogical  and  geological  cabinets.  I 
seemed  to  have  God's  wide-spread  earth  presented  to  me 
at  a  sight.  I  never  before  had  such  a  conception  of 
what  had  been  done  in  making  our  globe.  But  I  resolve 
a  hundred  times  a  day  that  I  will  leave  Paris,  that  I  may 
not  be  so  tantalized  !  For  it  is  a  greater  pain  than  en- 
joyment just  to  glance  at  a  department  long  enough  to 
feel  deeply,  and  almost  only,  what  you  are  losing  in  not 
being  able  calmly  to  examine  and  be  filled  with  its 
treasures.  One  whole  day  would  not  suffice  for  the 
most  cursory  glance  at  tjiis  one  ground,  and  I  passed 
through  in  an  hour!  It  lies  in  my  memory  like  a 
dream. — Thence  to  the  Pantheon,  a  temple  of  glory; 
much  admired,  but  to  me  vast,  cold  and  empty. — Thence 
to  the  Palace  de  Luxembourg.  But  here  there  is  a  gal- 
lery of  paintings !    Ah,  what  a  new  world  has  been 


GALLERIES  OF  PAINTINGS 


57 


opened  to  me !  And  what  a  new  sense  within  myselL 
I  knew  that  I  had  gradually  grown  fond  of  pictures  from 
my  boyhood.  I  had  felt  the  power  of  some  few.  But 
nothing  had  ever  come  up  to  a  certain  ideal  that  had 
hovered  in  my  mind ;  and  I  supposed  that  I  was  not  fine 
enough  to  appreciate  with  discrimination  the  works  of 
masters.  To  find  myself  absolutely  intoxicated — to  find 
my  system  so  much  affected  that  I  could  not  control  my 
nerves — to  find  myself  trembling  and  laughing  and 
weeping,  and  almost  hysterical,  and  that  in  spite  of  my 
shame  and  resolute  endeavor  to  behave  better, — such  a 
power  of  these  galleries  over  me  I  had  not  expected.  I 
have  lived  for  two  days  in  fairy-land, — wakened  out  of 
it  by  some  few  sights  which  I  have  mechanically  visited, 
more  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  dear  friends  at  home,  when 
I  return,  than  for  a  present  pleasure  to  myself ;  but  re- 
lapsing again  into  the  golden  vision.  The  Gallery  of 
the  Luxembourg  has  about  three  hundred  paintings  by 
two  hundred  and  thirty-six  artists  now  living. 

I  shall  give  you  some  account  of  the  effect  on  my 
mind  of  my  visits  to  this  gallery  yesterday  and  to  the 
Louvre  to-day.  This  last  collection  is  enormous.  To 
examine  it  in  one  or  two  visits  is  like  attempting  to  read 
an  encyclopedia  at  one  sitting.  One  can  only  take  the 
general  effect,  and  record  his  Experiences  in  the  midst 
of  this  wilderness  of  beauty.  I  had  as  lief  attempt  to 
pluck  and  examine  each  special  flower  growing  in 
France,  as  to  single  out  and  observe  carefully  each 
picture.  Indeed,  your  first  feeling  is  that  of  despair. 
But  an  intense  hour  will  do  -more  than  dreamy  years  ; 
3* 


58 


THE  LOUVRE. 


and  I  gathered  much.  It  contains  a  vast  collection  of 
antique  statues,  Greek  and  Koman ;  cabinets  of  curiosi- 
ties, which  are  curiosities ;  coins ;  the  utensils  of  various 
ages  and  nations;  arms  and  armor;  vases,  cameos, 
jewelry;  the  costly  plate  of  royal  families,  engraved 
stones,  &c,  &c. ;  Indian  and  Chinese  collections;  ma- 
chinery ;  and  in  particular  the  models  of  French  ships, 
and  the  history,  in  models,  of  ship-building,  not  only 
from  the  keel  to  the  last  rope  of  rigging,  but  also 
of  the  progress  of  marine  architecture  from  age  to  age. 
But  this  is  only  a  thing  aside.  It  has  a  vast  collection 
of  the  great  schools  of  painters  ancient  and  modern. 
Each  school  has  its  saloons  ;  and  they  follow  one  after 
another  until  the  mind  reels  and  staggers  under  the  be- 
fore unconceived  and  inconceivable  riches !  .No  descrip- 
tion will  impress  you  with  the  multitudinousness  of  this 
repository  of  art.  All  the  streams  of  pictorial  beauty 
seem,  since  the  world  began,  to  have  flowed  hither,  and 
this  is  the  ocean.  I  mean  first  to  give  you  in  some  de- 
tail the  states  of  my  mind,  as  I  now  look  back  upon 
them ;  and  then  I  will  take  you  with  me  into  the  gal- 
leries, and  step  by  step  I  will  soliloquize,  or  describe,  or 
paint  with  my  pen  : — at  least  I  shall  fill  out  this  inten- 
tion unless  some  new  excitement  bursting  on  me  quite 
drives  this  purpose  from  the  field.  You  have  lost,  or 
psrhaps  rather  escaped,  several  descriptions  and  wonder- 
ful experiences  in  this  way.  For  if  I  do  not  write  al- 
most at  once  what  I  have  to  say,  a  new  crop  springs  up 
and  grows  so  rankly  as  quite  to  smother  down  the 
growth  of  yesterday. 


IMPKESSIONS.  59 

The  first  feeling  which  overwhelmed  me  was  that  of 
surprise — profound  wonder.  It  seemed  as  if  all  picture- 
admiration,  before,  had  been  of  one  sort,  but  this  of 
another  and  higher, — the  result  of  instant  conversion, 
if  the  expression  be  not  irreverent.  The  number  of 
pictures — the  great  number  of  good  pictures ! — not  stuff 
to  fill  up, — but  noble,  enchanting  pieces,  some  of  vast 
size,  of  wonderful  brilliancy,  of  novel  subjects,  in  posi-* 
tions  the  most  favorable  for  the  finest  effect, — all  this  * 
filled  me  with  exquisite  surprise.  Can  you  imagine  the 
feelings  which  you  would  have,  if,  after  all  the  flowers 
you  have  seen,  you  should,  in  a  chance  drive,  unexpect- 
edly come  into  some  mountain-pass,  and  find  the  sides 
far  up  perfectly  overspread  with  flowers,  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  new,  of  all  forms,  of  every  color,  of  fragrance 
surpassing  any  hitherto  found,  of  every  size,  and  so 
growing  that  one  set  off  another,  and  all  of  them  spread 
abroad  on  ruby  rocks,  with  diamonds,  and  every  pre- 
cious stone,  gleaming  out  between  the  leaves !  In  some 
such  way  did  I  stand  surprised  when  first  in  these  grand 
galleries. 

This  surprise  soon  changed  to  a  more  complex  pleas- 
ure. It  was  not  the  enjoyment  of  color,  alone ;  nor  of 
form,  nor  of  the  composition,  nor  of  the  sentiment  of 
the  pieces,  but  a  harmony  of  pleasure  from  all  cf  these. 
The  walls  beam  upon  you  as  if  each  was  a  summer; 
and,  like  one  strolling  at  summer's  eve,  you  can  not  tell 
whether  it  be  the  clouds,  the  sky,  the  light,  the  shadows, 
the  scenery,  or  the  thousand  remembrances  which  rise 
over  the  soul  in  such  an  hour,  that  give  the  pleasure, 


CO 


IMPRESSIONS. 


I  saw  all  that  the  painter  painted,  and  more ;  I  imagined 
in  each  scene  (for  the  most  were  pictures  of  human  forms) 
what  had  gone  before,  and  what  had  followed.  I 
talked  with  the  beautiful  or  fearful  creatures,  and  they 
spake  to  me.  As  I  gradually  journeyed  down  the  gal- 
lery, the  sense  of  multitudinous  beauty  increased,  and 
all  that  I  had  seen  and  all  that  I  was  seeing  seemed  to 
run  together  and  form  a  bewildering  sense  of  tropical 
luxuriance  of  conception  and  execution.  There  was 
that  same  individuality  of  picture  that  there  is  of  trees 
in  a  forest ;  and  yet,  like  trees,  each  picture  seemed  to 
extend  its  branches  into  others,  so  that  there  was  a 
unity — a  forest. 

The  sense  of  beauty — beauty  of  every  kind — of  form, 
feature,  expression,  attitude,  intent,  grouping — beauty 
of  drawing,  of  coloring,  of  each  thing  by  itself,  and  of 
all  together — was  inexpressible. 

After  a  time  this  passed  away,  and  I  began  to  select 
one  and  another  picture  for  special  examination.  They 
contested  with  each  other  for  supremacy  in  my  regard. 
One  is  sustained  for  a  longer  time  under  a  degree  of  at- 
tention and  high  excitement,  than  you  could  have  sup- 
posed it  possible.  Hour  after  hour  passes,  and  no  sense 
of  exhaustion  warns  you  of  time.  Joy,  and  the  higher 
powers  of  pleasurable  excitement,  I  think  have  no  such 
thing  as  time.  Poets  have  sung  this  of  love.  But  I  am 
conscious  now  that  it  is  a  fact  of  all  intense  and  pure 
excitements  that  have  in  them  a  loving  spiritual  element. 

I  could  not  tell  whether  hours  or  minutes  were  pass- 
ing.   It  was  a  blessed  exhalation  of  soul,  in  which  I 


IMPKESSIONS. 


61 


seemed  freed  from  matter  and,  as  a  diffused  intelligence, 
to  float  in  the  atmosphere.    I  could  not  believe  that  a 
dull  body  was  the  center  from  which  thought  and  emo- 
tion radiated.  I  had  a  sense  of  expansion,  of  etherealiza- 
tion,  which  gave  me  some  faint  sense  of  a  spiritual  state, 
Nor  was  I  in  a  place  altogether  unfitted  for  such  a  state. 
The  subjects  of  many  of  the  works — suffering,  heroic 
resistance,  angels,  Arcadian  scenes,  especially  the  scenes 
of  Christ's  life  and  death— seemed  a  not  unfitting  ac- 
companiment to  my  mind,  and  suggested  to  me,  in  a 
glorious  vision,  the  drawing  near  of  a  redeemed  soul  to 
the  precincts  of  Heaven!  .  0,  with  what  an  outburst 
of  soul  did  I  implore  Christ  to  wash  me  and  all  whom 
I  loved  in  His  precious  blood,  that  we  might  not  fail  of 
entering  the  glorious  city,  whose  builder  and  maker  is 
God !    All  my  sins  seemed  not  only  sins,  but  great  de- 
formities.   They  seemed  not  merely  affronts  against 
God,  but  insults  to  my  own  nature.    My  soul  snuffed 
at  them,  and  trod  them  down  as  the  mire  in  the  street. 
Then,  holy  and  loving  thoughts  toward  God  or  toward 
man,  seemed  to  me  to  be  as  beautiful  as  those  fleecy 
islets  along  the  west  at  sunset,  crowned  with  glory ; 
and  the  gentler  aspirations  for  goodness  and  nobleness 
and  knowledge  seemed  to  me  like  silvery  mists  through 
which  the  morning  is  striking,  wafting  them  gently  and 
in  wreaths  and  films  heavenward.    Great  deeds,  hero- 
ism for  worthy  objects,  for  God  or  for  one's  fellows,  or 
for  one's  own  purity,  seemed  not  only  natural,  but  as 
things  without  which  a  soul  could  not  live. 

But  at  length  I  perceived  myself  exhausted,  not  by 


62 


IMPRESSIONS 


any  sense  of  fatigue  (I  had  no  sense  or  body),  but  by 
perceiving  that  my  mind  would  not  fix  upon  material 
objects,  but  strove  to  act  by  itself.  Thus,  a  new  picture 
was  examined  only  for  an  instant,  and  then  I  exhaled 
into  all  kinds  of  golden  dreams  and  visions. 

I  left  the  gallery,  and  in  this  mood,  as  I  threaded  my 
way  back,  how  beautiful  did  every  thing  and  every 
body  seem !  The  narrow  streets  were  beautiful  for 
being  narrow,  and  the  broad  ones  for  being  broad; 
old  buildings  had  their  glory,  and  new  structures  had 
theirs ;  children  were  all  glorified  children ;  I  loved  the 
poor  workmen  that  I  saw  in  the  confined  and  narrow 
shops ;  the  various  women,  young  and  old,  with  huge 
buck-baskets,  or  skipping  hither  and  thither  on  errands, 
all  seemed  happy,  and  my  soul  blessed  them  as  I  passed. 
My  own  joy  of  being,  overflowed  upon  every  thing  which 
I  met.  Sometimes,  singing  to  myself  or  smiling  to 
others,  so  as  to  make  men  think,  doubtless,  that  I  had 
met  some  good  luck,  or  was  on  some  prosperous  errand 
of  love,  I  walked  on  through  street  after  street,  turn- 
ing whichever  corner,  to  the  right  or  left,  happened  to 
please  the  moment,  neither  knowing  nor  caring  where 
I  went,  but  always  finding  something  to  see,  and  enjoy- 
ing all  things.  Nor  do  I  know  yet  by  what  instinct 
I  rounded  up  my  journeyings  by  finding  my  proper 
lodging.  That  night  I  slept,  as  to  my  body,  but  felt 
little  difference  between  dreaming  asleep  and  dreaming 
awake. 

And  now  I  dare  say  you  will  all  of  you  criticise  such 
a  wild  way  of  examining  pictures.   You  will  pronounce 


IMPKESSIONS. 


63 


it  most  unphilosophical,  rendering  one  liable  to  admire 
without  discrimination  or  justice.  But  in  things  that 
respect  the  feelings,  no  man  is  sane  who  does  not  know 
how  to  be  insane  on  proper  occasions !  As  to  a  critical 
judgment,  or  technical  study  of  pictures  upon  a  first 
visit,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  reading  my  wife's  letter 
as  a  grammarian,  or  of  looking  at  a  rose  sent  me  for  a 
token  of  love,  with  the  eye  of  a  mere  botanist.  To  make 
my  first  visit  to  a  gallery  of  paintings  a  process  of  study- 
ing causes,  instead  of  experiencing  effects,  would  be  to 
throw  away  an  exquisite  pleasure,  and  one  which  omit- 
ted could  never  be  recalled.  Only  once  in  a  man's  life 
can  he  be  or  see  what  I  have  been  or  seen.  There  is 
but  ONE  first  time  to  any  thing ;  and  he  is  foolish  indeed 
that  squanders  it  by  giving  himself  to  analysis,  instead 
of  yielding  himself  to  sympathy  and  enthusiasm ;  and 
the  more  artless  and  unashamed  his  enjoyment,  the 
better.  The  first  merit  of  pictures  is  the  effect  which 
they  can  produce  upon  the  mind; — and  the  first  step  of 
a  sensible  man  should  be  to  receive  involuntary  effects 
from  them.  Pleasure  and  inspiration  first,  analysis 
afterward.  The  more  perfectly  one  can  abandon  him- 
self, the  more  true  he  can  be  to  his  real  feelings  and 
impressions,  the  wiser  he  is.  It  is  a  glorious  thing  to 
have  a  freshet  in  the  soul !  To  have  the  better  feelings 
overflow  their  banks  and  carry  out  of  the  channel  all 
the  dull  obstructions  of  ordinary  life.  It  reveals  us  to 
ourselves.  It  augments  the  sense  of  being.  In  these 
higher  moods  of  feeling  there  is  intuitional  moral  in- 
struction, to'  the  analysis  of  which  the  intellect  comes 


64  •    GALLERY  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG 


afterward  with  slow  steps.  Therefore,  I  said  to  the 
pictures,  "I  am  here;  I  am  yours;  do  what  you  will 
with  me ;  I  am  here  to  be  intoxicated."  My  feelings 
opened  out  to  them  as  flowers  upon  a  southward  slope 
would  open  to  the  morning  sun,  letting  its  stimulation  . 
develop  whatever  was  in  them  to  be  developed.  They 
took  me  at  my  word,  and  such  another  revel — such  an 
ethereal  intoxication,  drunk  from  the  cup  of  heavenly 
beauty,  I  shall  not  have  again,  until  I  drink  that  nSw 
wine  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven ! 


Gallery  of  Paintings  at  the  Luxembourg. 

I  have  come  again  to  spend  the  day  here.  If  I  feel 
that  I  can  express  any  of  the  thoughts  which  rise  and 
which  would  interest  you,  I  will  do  it.  But  they  will  be 
detached.  For  when  any  view  or  thought  springs  up,  I 
shall  stop  upon  the  spot  and  dash  it  down  as  it  first  lives 
in  me. 

Did  you  ever,  after  very  dear  friends,  with  whom 
all  the  sympathies  of  your  heart  were  affiliated,  had  left 
places  in  which  you  and  they  had  lived  much  in  a  short 
time,  experience  a  gentle,  serene  happiness,  and  stroll 
about — sorry  and  glad  that  they  were  gone — feeling  their 
presence  in  every  thing,  and  having  from  every  object 
around  you  a  bright  emanation  of  remembrance  of 
them?  Well,  then  you  know,  not  how  I  feel  to-day, 
in  this  gallery,  but  you  know  the  direction  in  which  to 
imagine  it.  I  am  calm,  happy,  full  of  sympathy — but 
rational  —  piercingly  appreciative — and  yet,  there  is 


GALLERY  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG.  .  05 

everywhere  a  second  sense,  or  bright  over-current  of 
remembrance  of  the  golden  joys  of  my  first  visit.  The 
visit  of  day  before  yesterday  seems  like  the  guardian 
angel  of  to-day's  visit — a  spirit  hovering  round  its 
charge ! 

It  is  surprising  to  what  an  extent  one  may  learn  his 
own  mental  peculiarities  in  such  a  gallery,  by  remarking 
the  pictures  which  affect  him  most,  and  those,  equally 
good,  and  better  as  works  of  art,  from  which  he  turns 
soon  and  carelessly.  I  do  not  feel  attracted  by  pictures 
which  express  only  veneration,  nor  by  those  which  ex- 
press unmingled  sorrow,  or  horror,  or  fear.  There  is 
here  a  noble  painting,  by  Scheffer,  of  a  distant  battlo 
between  the  Turks  and  Suliot  Greeks,  and  the  near 
figures  composed  of  the  Suliot  women  witnessing  the 
defeat  of  their  husbands  and  parents,  and  resolving  to 
cast  themselves  down  from  the  high  rocks  on  which 
they  are  grouped.  I  can  not  look  at  it  for  a  moment. 
There  are  eighteen  women,  exhibiting  very  different 
effects  of  grief,  and  three  beautiful  children  in  the 
group  ; — when  is  not  a  child  beautiful  ?  I  linger  upon 
these  little  fellows  more  than  upon  all  the  rest. 

In  another  picture,  by  Delorme,  Hector  reproaches 
Paris  for  not  going  out  to  the  war,  but  living  in  effem- 
inate enjoyment  with  Helen.  She  is  the  center  figure, 
the  very  impersonation  of  light,  simple,  confiding  love ; 
not  the  deep,  silent  love,  but  the  laughing,  childlike 
affection.    She  is  disrobed  the  one  half,  with  gossamer 


66.  GALLERY  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG. 

about  one  arm,  and  a  delicate  cherry-colored  robe  about 
her  loins  and  limbs.  Hector  stands  on  the  left,  his  back 
to  the  light,  so  that  his  face  and  whole  front  are  in  the 
'  shadow  of  his  own  body,  enhancing  the  expression  of 
high  honorable  reproach  conveyed  by  his  face,  position, 
and  full  apparel  of  arms.  Paris,  stung  by  his  words, 
has  risen  up  hastily  from  dalliance  with  Helen,  and  is 
striding  away,  wearing  an  expression  of  shame  and 
honorable  resolve  upon  a  face  which  yet  retains,  in  part, 
the  recent  sweetness  of  love.  He  tears  a  chaplet  of 
flowers  from  his  head ;  and  a  thin  filmy  scarf,  which  his 
forward  motion  luckily  entangles,  sweeps  upon  him 
judiciously,  just  in  time  to  save  him  from  being  quite 
naked.  A  statue  of  Venus  in  the  dim,  but  light  back- 
ground, a  fan  of  peacock's  feathers  in  her  hand,  fall- 
ing upon  her  right  shoulder,  a  couch  behind  with  a 
leopard's  skin  upon  it,  sufficiently  indicate  the  auspices 
under  which  they  hitherto  had  dwelt. 

Romans  during  the  Decline. — This  picture  alone 
is  larger  than  the  whole  side  of  one  of  our  parlors, 
measuring  about  thirty  feet  by  twenty,  and  contains 
thirty-five  figures  larger  than  life  size.  It  represents  a 
luxurious  Eoman  banquet,  in  its  last  stages;  flowers, 
roses,  princely  and  gorgeous  garments  of  Tyrian  dye, 
lie  on  the  marble  table  in  front ;  a  couch  and  table  ex- 
tend the  whole  length  of  the  portico,  which  is  open  to 
the  air  on  the  far  side,  from  which  the  light  comes. 
The  whole  indicates  the  utmost  luxury  of  dress — which, 
however,  seems  to  have  very  little  to  do  with  their 


GALLERY  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG. 


67 


bodies — and  the  utmost  abandonment  to  wine  and  pleas- 
ure. The  men  are  in  every  stage  of  intoxication — some 
being  carried  out  by  slaves — some  asleep  on  the  floor, 
or  dozing  at  the  table — some  drinking  wine — some  kiss- 
ing their  beautiful  neighbors,  who  are  profusely  scattered 
through  the  picture  in  every  conceivable  condition,  ex- 
cept decent  ones.  It  is  full  of  nakedness,  lust,  and 
drunken  revelry.  There  is  an  air  of  earnestness  about 
the  whole,  of  an  utter  abandonment  of  themselves,  soul 
and  body,  to  revelry,  that  makes  the  effect  awful.  This 
is  hightened  by  powerful  accessories.  The  vast  build- 
ing, a  fruit  of  old  Eoman  greatness  of  conception ;  the 
statues  of  the  noble  Eomans  of  other  days  standing  up 
in  gigantic  size  against  the  background,  and  two  noble/ 
virtuous  and  indignant  Eomans,  on  one  side,  who  are 
looking  in,  ashamed  and  heart-faint  at  the  beastliness  of 
their  countrymen — these  give  such  an  effect  to  the  whole, 
that  one  can  not  help  feeling  his  indignation  rising 
against  the  luxurious  wretches.  The  utmost  breath  of 
sensuous  pleasure  excites  not  one  sympathy  in  you  for 
the  pleasure,  but  you  mourn  for  the  state  which  is  can- 
kered and  destroyed  by  such  citizens. 

O,  what  a  noble,  melancholy  picture  is  the  next,  by 
Delaroche — the  Death  of  Elizabeth,  Queen  of  England. 
I  never  before  have  seen  a  death-scene  painted  that 
equaled  the  occasion.  But  what  can  I  say  more  of  a 
picture,  in  which  Elizabeth  is  dying,  Cecil  trying  to  com- 
fort her,  her  nobles  and  chief  women  being  present,  than 
that  it  more  than  equals  the  imagination?    It  lifts  it  up 


* 

G8  GALLERY  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG. 

— it  gives  it  to  know,  as  it  never  did  before,  what  such  a 
scene  must  have  been  !  I  will  describe  it  if  I  get  home 
— language  may  indicate  the  ideas,  but  never  the  color- 
ing, the  strength  of  the  figures,  the  depth  of  the  whole 
thing.  It  was  hardly  more  real,  in  life,  than  on  the 
canvas. 

I  never  before  realized  the  right  effect  of  size  in  pic- 
tures. Large  canvas  conveys  something  which  is  more 
than  the  mere  figures — there  is  a  sense  of  reality  in 
things  of  life-size,  or  even  greater  than  the  natural, 
which  does  not  belong  to  and  can  not  be  conveyed  by 
under-sizes. 

I  have  finished — six  hours  are  gone — from  ten  to  four 
— the  gallery  closes,  and  I  look  probably  for  the  last 
time  on  these  treasures  of  the  living  French  Artists! 
Well,  many  of  these  pictures  I  shall  continue  to  see  as 
long  as  I  live.  By  the  help  of  some  of  them  I  believe  I 
shall  preach  better  hereafter. 

Being  all  new  pictures,  that  is,  not  fifty  years  old, 
they  have  a  great  freshness  of  color,  which  is  both  a  help 
and  a  hindrance.  It  gives  vividness  to  them,  but  then 
there  is  lacking  that  subdued  mellowness  that  age  gives 
to  pictures. 

I  think,  of  the  artists  which  I  have  seen  thus  far, 
these  are  the  best,  and  in  this  order,  Vernet,  Delaroche, 
Scheffer,  Schnetz,  Delorme.  It  is  hard  to  decide  be- 
tween the  first  two.  I  suppose  Vernet  is  the  better,  but 
I  certainly  like  the  two  pictures  of  Delaroche — the  Death 
of  Elizabeth,  and  another  without  name — far  better. 


GALLERY  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG.  69 

I  am  heartily  tired  of  French  nakedness.  Their  sec- 
ond-rate painters  seem  to  abhor  nothing  so  much  as 
linen.  I  think  myself  not  to  be  fastidious  in  such  things. 
I  am  willing  always  to  see  the  human  form  sculptured 
or  painted  when  it  seems  to  subserve  a  good  purpose. 
If  it  be  natural  that  it  should  under  such  and  such  cir- 
cumstances be  disrobed,  I  do  not  turn  away  from  it, 
provided  the  sentiment  is  noble,  and  predominates  to 
such  a  degree  as  to  make  the  condition  of  the  figure  a 
secondary  and  scarcely  perceived  affair.  But,  so  to  paint 
women,  that,  against  the  propriety  of  the  thing  (to  say 
nothing  of  morals),  you  admire  beauty  instead  of  follow- 
ing the  sentiment;  or  to  select  subjects  which  require 
effeminacy  and  luxury,  and  corresponding  representa- 
tives, is  too  bad.  I  am  sick  of  naked  harems.  The  Turk 
refuses  a  sight  of  his  women  even  when  dressed.  The 
French  are  courteous  to  the  other  extreme.  I  could  not 
help  feeling,  at  length,  and  not  alone  of  this  gallery,  that 
a  yard  of  linen  would  be,  of  itself,  almost  an  object  of 
beauty ;  and  quite  original,  too,  as  an  idea  of  art,  among 
a  certain  class  of  French  painters. 

But  enough  of  this.  You  are  yawning  by  this  time, 
and  wishing  my  gallery,  painters,  and  writer  too,  in 
Jericho — for  dullness — and  I  will  stop.  PerhapsvI  may 
add  a  chapter  to-morrow. 


Y. 

THE  LOUVRE. 

Paeus. 

Here  am  I,  in  the  Gallery  of  Statues.  I  shall  jot 
down,  here  and  there,  notes  of  my  impressions,  and  if 
they  do  not  interest  you,  skip  them  and  save  them  for 
me;  for  I  can  not  write  in  my  private  note-book  many 
things  which  I  wish  to  remember. 

How  strange  is  the  feeling  which  subdues  one  in  the 
presence  of  this  vast  collection — thousands  of  statues, 
brought  from  Eome  and  adjacent  places,  and  made  in 
the  best  days  of  her  greatness.  Here  is  a  Jupiter  made 
when  men  helieved  in  his  power ;  here  are  Oesars  carved 
when  that  name  made  the  world  tremble ;  here  are  Bac- 
chus, Venus,  Apollo,  Minerva,  centaurs,  cupids,  nymphs, 
vestals,  and  they  are  almost  to  me  as  if  they  lived ;  be- 
cause I  feel  that  when  they  were  made,  they  were,  to  the 
age,  realities,  and  not  mythological,  as  they  are  to  us. 
Besides,  these  marbles  once  represented  the  mind  and 
heart  of  the  world.  What  mighty  changes  have  rolled 
over  the  globe  since  the  day  when  not  to  believe  and 
to  worship  these,  and  such  as  these,  was  infidelity ! 
Since  then,  they  have  fallen  from  the  niches  and  ped- 
estals— have  been  buried  in  ruin.  They  slept  awhile  ; 
the  world  wrought  and  grew,  and  at  length,  secure  for 
centuries,  they  are  dug  out  and  reerected.  But  how 
changed — not  they,  but  we ;  now,  only  a  fool  or  some 


THE  LOUVRE. 


71 


poet-mad  creature  worships.  One,  in  looking  at  them, 
feels  a  dim  and  misty  history  of  this  long  period  and 
its  changes  rising  before  him,  and  filling  his  soul  with 
a  strange  somber  joy  and  sadness. 

Every  statue  of  Trajan  is  alike  in  representing  his 
head  hto  in  the  moral  region,  very  large  perceptives  and 
very  small  reflectives,  full  in  the  sides,  back  and  top. 

All  the  heads  of  Augustus  are  good,  and  the  face 
noble.  It  is  the  face  of  a  man — genius  and  frank  good- 
heartedness. 

The  head  of  Demosthenes,  as  here  carved,  is  not  re- 
markable ;  language  small ;  brow  good,  but  not  com- 
manding; equally  developed  in  perceptive  and  reflective 
faculties — not  such  an  one  as  I  imagined. 

One  easily  reads  the  condition  of  women  in  the  most 
refined  days  and  nations  of  antiquity,  in  the  idealization 
of  them  in  statues.  In  this  respect  the  French  painters 
are  like  the  ancients ; — grace,  extreme  physical  beauty, 
and  an  inviting  softness  of  expression,  characterize  their 
women.  But  genius,  intelligence,  nobleness  of  purity, 
and  that  capacity  for  loving  which  wins  admiration  but 
awes  familiarity — these  attributes,  in  which  we  conceive 
of  woman,  do  not  belong  to  the  statues,  as  they  probably 
did  not  belong  to  the  living  women  that  sculptors 
knew,  in  antiquity,  or  to  the  ideal  conceptions  of  them. 
Women  are  a  new  race,  recreated  since  the  world  re- 
ceived Christianity.  I  feel,  in  this  gallery,  among  these 
memorials,  what  it  would  be  to  go  back  to  the  time 
before  Christianity  enlightened  the  world. 

All  the  heads  of  Yenus  are  finer  in  profile  than  in 


72 


THE  LOUVRE. 


front.  Contrary  to  my  expectation,  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  statues  of  Venus,  as  a  divinity,  are  anything  but 
voluptuous.  Her  freaks,  in  the  fabulous  histories,  were 
surely  wanton  enough  ;  but  the  ancients  evidently  had 
a  conception  of  her  which  we  do  not  at  all  take  in.  As 
the  divinity  ofneiv  life  ;  of  fresh  existence;  and  so  of  yet 
unstained  purity.  We  must  separate  in  our  minds  the 
Venus  of  pleasure  from  the  more  purely  and  poetically 
conceived  Venus.  Youth,  beauty,  hope,  and  health, 
characterize  her.  If  this  ideal  be  separated  from  the 
grosser  associations,  it  is  not  wanting  in  beauty.  I  am 
greatly  but  agreeably  disappointed  in  the  statues  of 
Venus. 

I  have  often  heard  of  grand  stairs ;  but  with  us,  §tairs 
are  such  matters  of  mere  convenience  that  I  had  no  con- 
ception of  the  architectural  effects  of  which  they  are 
susceptible.  For,  when  a  space  larger  than  the  whole 
of  two  such  houses  as  yours  is  devoted  to  them,  and 
they  are  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  broad,  and  broken  every 
twenty  steps  by  a  platform,  surrounded  by  columns, 
decorated  with  vases  and  carved  sides,  and  they  run  to 
such  a  length  as  to  form  a  grand  vista,  narrowing  in  the 
distance,  they  are  among  the  most  striking  objects  which 
you  will  see. 

Painted  Ceilings. — The  fact  is  that  we  have  no  ceil- 
ings  to  paint,  ours  being  low,  circumscribed,  and  without 
grandeur.  But  when  you  have  domes  that  swell  above 
your  head  almost  like  the  heavenly  vault,  and  vast  but 
diversified  ranges  of  ceilings,  you  feel  the  propriety  of 
covering  them  with  every  device.    The  richness  of  tho 


THE  LOUVKE.  73 

compartments,  and  the  complexity  of  the  borders,  the 
innumerable  figures,  the  inexhaustible  fertility  of  sub- 
:  jects,  and  the  neck-breaking  weariness  of  trying  to  look 
straight  up  long  enough  to  enjoy  them — these  things 
one  must  experience  to  understand  or  appreciate.  But 
so  much  richer  in  interest  are  the  things  around,  that  I 
can  look  at  ceilings  but  in  passing.  One  feels,  however, 
how  grand  a  field  it  gives  to  an  artist — such  an  unob- 
structed space !  And  when  the  rooms  are,  like  these, 
each  devoted  to  a  given  purpose,  the  artist  by  some 
allegorical  painting  gives  to  the  ceiling  the  name  and  • 
character  of  the  collections.  Thus  the  hall  where  I 
write,  and  the  room  just  left,%  are  called  from  Hercu- 
laneum  and  Pompeii.  In  the  first  room,  the  ceiling 
represents  the  genii  of  the  arts  under  the  form  of 
women,  quite  .beautiful  and  quite  nude,  looking  with 
pleasure  upon  a  youth,  who  represents  Charles  X.,  the 
collector  of  these  treasures.  Still  more  appropriately 
in  this  room  of  the  destroyed  cities,  the  artist  repre- 
sents the  presiding  goddess,  or  rather  represents  the 
cities  that  were  destroyed,  under  the  form  of  beautiful 
goddesses,  who  sit  sadly  upon  the  awful  sides  of  the 
mountain,  which  already  is  lurid  with  eruption,  and 
from  whose  fiery  summit-gulf  the  dark  and  angry  god 
of  fire  is  rushing  forth  to  destroy. 

In  the  Egyptian  saloon,  little  winged  spirits  draw  a 
drapery  from  before  a  throne  on  which  sits  a  beautiful 
majestic  Egyptian  princess ;  at  her  feet  arc  symbols  of 
Art  and  Eeligion,  and,  receding  in  the  distance,  are 
seen  the  dim  summits  of  the  pyramids ;  while  Art  and 
4 


74 


THE  LOUVRE. 


Learning  are  advancing  toward  her  as  if  surprised  "by 
the  discovery. 

One  soon  begins  to  feel,  in  examining  such  an  endless 
gallery  of  representations  as  this,  how  little  he  knows 
minutely  and  accurately,  even  of  the  most  familiar 
things  in  nature.  The  range  of  subjects  covers  almost 
the  whole  ground  of  human  knowledge.  One  must  be 
multifariously  learned  to  follow  the  painter  even  super- 
ficially. But  when  we  reflect  that  each  artist — men  of 
signal  genius  and  intelligence — devoted  their  lives  to 
the  minute  study  of  the  topics  which  they  represent,  it 
appears  plain  that,  in  details,  their  pictures  ought  to  be 
beyond  the  criticism  of  most  men.  I  can  criticise  a 
floral  picture;  but  the  dogs  and  game  of  Desportes, 
which  nearly  fill  one  room,  are  perfectly  life-like,  and 
every  time  I  look  I  see  some  new  excellence  and  it 
grows  to  wonder;  and  the  exact  knowledge  of  the 
painter,  the  close  observation,  the  minute  study  of  the 
minutest  things,  all  impress  me  with  a  feeling  of  how 
much  there  is  in  the  least  thing  that  God  has  made. 
In  some  respects,  God's  works  are  more  surprising  to  us 
through  the  imitations  of  men  than  in  themselves. 

We  pass  to  another  saloon — filled  with  the  works  of 
Lesuer,  Rigaud,  Mignard,  and  Claude  Lorraine.  The 
ceiling  represents,  with  exquisite  beauty  and  effect,  the 
popular  love  of  art  in  their  age.  A  noble  statue,  a  man 
pounced  upon  by  a  lion,  has  just  been  opened  in  tho 
public  grounds,  and  crowds  are  assembled  to  inspect  it. 
Doubtless  many  of  the  faces  are  portraits.  The  variety 
of  expressions  of  face,  indicating  the  effects  of  a  fino 


THE  LOUVRE 


work  of  art  on  different  dispositions,  is  admirable.  Then 
as  to  position  and  drapery,  and  intensely  rich  colors 
and  contrasts,  it  is  wonderful.  These  ceilings  grow  on 
me.    But,  0,  my  neck ! 

Who  that  has  read  at  all  has  not  read  of  Claude's 
sunsets  ?  At  length  I  see  them  with  my  own  eyes !  The 
whole  air  is  full  of  ether-gold  !  There  are  other  artists 
who  put  more  color  into  their  pictures — into  the  trees, 
the  forms,  the  clouds.  He  puts  it  into  the  atmosphere. 
Every  thing  is  then  bathed  and  suffused  with  its  glow. 

It  is  two  hours  since  I  wrote  the  above.  My  mind 
refused  to  reproduce  in  writing  its  thoughts  long  before 
it  was  too  much  wearied  to  enjoy.  But  now  I  am  only 
half  through  the  gallery,  and  am  utterly  exhausted.  I 
can  neither  feel,  think,  nor  look.  There  are  Murillos, 
Titians,  Carraccis,  and  others  of  equal  note ;  but  I  see 
only  a  vast  wilderness  of  color,  and  the  sense  of  beauty, 
jaded  and  sated,  sinks  under  the  burden.  If  you  aver- 
age these  saloons,  each  one  is  larger  than  the  gallery  of 
the  New  York  Art  Union  (single  saloon).  There  are 
forty-four  saloons !  Five  or  six  only  are  devoted  to 
cabinets  of  coins,  etc.,  and  the  rest  to  pictures !  Yet, 
nearly  a  half  of  the  collection  is  shut  up  and  can  not  be 
seen  until  the  improvements  are  completed  in  the  saloons 
where  the  pictures  are  to  hang !  Only  think  of  nearly 
eighty  saloons  of  pictures  classified  into  the  French,  Ital- 
ian, Flemish,  German,  English  and  Ancient  Schools! 
But  this  does  not  include  the  basement,  devoted  to 


76 


DOVER  CLIFFS 


marble  statuary,  or  the  upper  story  devoted  to  marine 
models  of  ships,  engines,  etc.,  etc.    Such  is  the  Louvre  ! 

Dover  Cliffs,  Friday  morning,  7  o'clock,  August 
23,  1850. — I  am  sitting  upon  the  very  edge  of  these 
cliffs  which  Shakspeare  has  made  memorable !  Dover 
lies  at  the  base,  and  its  sounds  rise  up  to  me  through 
the  long  distance.  The  channel  is  spotted  with  sails — 
the  sun  shines  mistily — the  air  is  mild,  and  hardly  a 
breath  waves  the  harebells  which  grow  round  me.  I 
pluck  from  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff,  where  they  have 
looked  below  and  above,  and  felt  every  wind  of  sum- 
mer, three  delicate  flowers  for  you,  for  Shakspeare's 
sake  and  for  my  own.  Four  doves  flying  far  up  have 
just  alighted  near  me  on  the  brink ;  had  I  their  wings  I 
would  soon  prove  the  ocean  deeps,  not  of  water  but  of 
ether !  0,  how  sweet  it  is  again  to  hear  one's  mother 
tongue,  even  when  spoken  by  strangers!  I  blessed 
even  the  everlasting  waiter  dunning  me  for  fees,  be- 
cause he  asked  in  English,  and  overpaid  him.  But 
how  could  I  have  contained  myself  had  the  greeting 
been  from  tried  friends !  Hastily  snatching  a  morsel 
of  food,  needed  after  an  all-night  journey  from  Paris,  I 
determine  to  stand  a  moment  on  the  highest  cliff — and 
to  leave  in  my  letter  a  little  memorial  of  it.  Imagine 
me  standing  up  against  the  clear  blue  sky  and  waving 
my  hand,  as  I  do  heartily,  to  you  and  yours,  both  a 
good  morning  and  a  farewell  from  Dover!  Good  bye 
—I  hasten  down  lest  I  lose  the  train — and  with  it  my 
very  amiable  mood ! 


YL 

LONDON  NATIONAL  GALLERY. 

London. 

We  often  suppose,  in  the  heat  and  noise  and  weari- 
ness of  the  city,  that  could  we  find  retirement  among 
cool  shades,  amid  flowers  and  trees,  by  brooks  or  airy 
mountains,  we  should  rest  So  we  should  if  we  could 
carry  with  us  our  friends,  or  else  leave  behind  and 
forget  our  friendships !  But  even  with  our  friends  about 
us  in  the  city,  we  are  wearied  by  the  noise  and  endless 
excitement.  In  seclusion,  without  our  friends,  we  are 
soon  wearied  by  the  trouble  that  rises  up  within.  But 
could  friends  go  with  us  into  the  quiet  of  rural  life, 
that  were  the  highest  reach  of  earthly  happiness. 

The  long  discontinuance  of  regular  occupation,  pro- 
duces sadness  and  depression,  by  a  sense  of  personal 
waste  and  worthlessness,  which  makes  the  day  long  and 
life  almost  a  burden.  I  am  less  able  to  dispose  of  my 
Sabbaths  than  any  other  part  of  my  time ;  partly,  because 
they  are  days  that  always  bring  up  the  remembrances  of 
childhood  to  me — the  days  of  stillness  and  brightness 
which  used  to  visit  me  when  young,  in  Litchfield,  and 
possess  me  with  visions  and  dreams,  or  reveries  and 
imaginations,  which  I  did  not  then  understand.  But, 
aside  from  these  associations,  the  Sabbath,  for  more  than 
fifteen  years,  has  been  a  day  of  intense  activity,  of  the 
highest  mental  and  moral  excitement.    Now  I  am  idle : 


78 


LONDON, 


I  seem  like  a  broken-stemmed  flower  that  the  river 
lias  cast  up  on  the  bank,  and  that  lies  there,  seeing  the 
stream  go  past,  but  itself  lying  still.  Or  rather  like  a 
branch  wrenched  off  from  its  stock,  and  drifted  and 
drifting  without  aim  or  rest.  I  seem  a  useless  thing, 
I  quite  envy  men  that  have  capacity  to  do  anything. 
To  be  sure,  I  have  a  latent  pride  that  would  not  al- 
low others  to  treat  me  as  if  they  thought  so  too.  But 
when  I  am  by  myself,  or  sauntering  about  the 
streets,  or  in  church,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  much  like  a 
thistle-down  in  a  bright  summer's  day,  that  neither  lifts 
up  into  the  air  nor  settles  down,  but  floats  here  and 
there  as  chance  may  blow  it, — and  no  one  will  ask 
to-morrow  (who  saw  it  to-day),  Where  is  it  ?  So  that  I 
find  a  man,  out  of  his  associations  and  life-connections, 
to  be  little  better  than  an  odd  wheel  of  a  machine,  good 
for  nothing  without  its  fellows. 

Now,  too,  I  am  apt,  if  I  do  not  fall  asleep  soon 
enough, — or  more  frequently  when  I  wake,  hours  before 
it  is  the  fashion  here  to  get  up, — to  lie  and  think  over  my 
way  of  life  hitherto;  and  my  life-work  seems  to  me  to 
have  been  so  little  and  so  poorly  done,  that  I  feel  dis- 
couraged at  the  thought  of  resuming  it!  I  have, 
everywhere,  in  my  travelings, — at  the  shrine  of  the  mar- 
tyrs in  Oxford,  at  the  graves  of  Bunyan  and  Wesley  in 
London,  at  the  vault  in  which  Kaleigh  was  for  twelve 
years  confined  in  the  Tower,  asked  myself  whether  1 
could  have  done  and  endured  what  they  did,  and  as 
they  did !  It  is  enough  to  make  one  tremble  for  him- 
self, to  have  such  a  heart-sounding  as  this  gives  him, 


LONDON. 


79 


I  cast  the  lead  for  the  depth,  of  my  soul,  and  it  strikes 
bottom  so  soon  that  I  have  little  reason  for  pride. 

Had  it  not  been  for  paintings,  flowers,  trees,  and  land- 
scapes, I  do  not  know  what  I  should  have  done  with 
myself.  Often,  when  extremely  depressed,  I  have  gone 
to  the  parks  or  out  of  the  city  to  some  quiet  ground, 
where  I  could  find  a  wooded  stream,  and  the  wood  filled 
with  birds,  and  found,  almost  in  a  moment,  a  new  spirit 
coming  over  me.  I  was  rid  of  men — almost  of  myself.  I 
seemed  to  find  a  sacred  sweetness  and  calmness,  not  com- 
ing over  me  but  into  me.  I  seemed  nearer  to  Heaven.  I 
felt  less  sadness  about  life,  for  God  would  take  care  of  it ; 
and  my  own  worthlessness,  too,  became  a  source  of  com- 
posure ;  for,  on  that  very  account,  it  made  little  differ- 
ence in  the  world's  history  whether  I  lived  or  died. 
God  worked,  it  seemed  to  me,  upon  a  scale  so  vast  and 
rich  in  details,  that  anything  and  anybody  could  be 
spared,  and  not  affect  the  results  of  life.  There  is 
such  a  view  of  the  sufficiency  of  God  as  to  make  your 
own  littleness  and  feebleness  a  source  of  very  true  and 
grateful  pleasure.  What  if  this  or  that  flower  per- 
ishes, is  the  summer  bereaved?  A  single  leaf  plucked 
from  the  oak  makes  no  difference.  What  if  I  should 
die  abroad?  A  shock  it  would  be  to  many, — but  in 
a  month's  time  only  a  few  would  feel  it  In  a  year, 
and  perhaps  half-a-dozen  only  out  of  the  world's  crew 
would  have  a  thought  or  a  sadness  about  it.  The  ship 
would  sail  merrily  on.  Yea,  my  own  children,  elastic 
with  youth,  would,  soonest  of  any,  grow  past  regret ; 
and  the  two  or  three  who  clung  to  the  broken  reed, 


80 


NATIONAL  GALLERY. 


would  themselves  soon  come  on  and  greet  me  in 
Heaven !  How  wisely  is  this  so.  There  were  no  end 
to  grief,  and  no  room  for  joy,  if  we  carried  all  the 
accumulated  troubles  of  life  with  undiminished  sensi- 
bility from  year  to  year.  First  we  bury  friends,  then 
time  buries  our  grief. 

How  often  and  often  have  I  blessed  God  for  the 
treasures  and  dear  comforts  of  his  natural  world!  Shall 
I  ever  be  grateful  enough  for  Trees!  Yet,  without 
doubt,  better  trees  there  might  be  than  even  the  most 
noble  and  beautiful  now.  I  suppose  God  has,  in  His 
thoughts,  much  better  ones  than  he  has  ever  planted 
on  this  globe.  They  are  reserved  for  the  glorious  land. 
Beneath  them  may  we  walk ! 


National  Gallery,  London. 

I  have  now  seen  so  many  pictures,  here  and  on 
the  continent,  by  the  greatest  masters,  ancient  and 
modern,  that  my  mind  begins  to  inter-compare  them. 
Every  painter  of  note  has  a  holy  family — a  Madonna, 
a  Christ  and  John,  a  Crucifixion,  a  Descent  from  the 
Cross,  and  a  Magdalen.  Often,  the  same  artist  has 
several  on  the  same  subjecc:  two  I  have  seen  this 
morning,  a  Magdalen  by  Guido,  in  the  British  Insti- 
tution, and  another  is  before,  me  here,  and  a  much 
finer  one.  In  the  fact  that  so  many  painters  engage 
upon  the  same  subject,  I  find  a  secondary  pleasure 
of  no  small  degree,  i.  e.  in  comparing  the  pictures  of 
euch  with  the  other.    If  I  could  only  retain  in  my 


V 


NATIONAL  GALLERY.  81 

mind  all  that  I  have  seen,  and  have  an  interior  gallery  of 
the  memory,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  be  enriched 
for  life.  The  finest  head  of  a  youthful  Christ  is  one  by 
Guido.  He  is  apparently  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  years 
of  age.  Without  at  all  resembling  those  countenances 
which  you  see  of  Eaphael,  he  is  yet  of  the  same  style 
of  face.  It  is  full  of  youth  and  love,  calm  yet  vivacious, 
with  a  look  of  dignity  that  is  to  be.  He  is  looking 
upon  John  (Baptist),  who,  with  a  swarthier  and  more 
rugged  face,  but  suffused  with  reverence  and  love  com- 
mingled, is  gazing  also  upon  Christ,  and  putting  one  hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  There  is  another  picture  by  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  representing  Christ  disputing  with  the  Doctors. 
It  is  only  half-length,  small,  Christ's  head  and  bust  in 
the,  center,  and  two  heads  on  each  side.  Christ  is  speak- 
ing apparently  to  you,  and  not  to  them,  with  his  hands 
before  him,  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  tip 
of  the  middle  Cnger  of  his  left,  as  if  making  a  point  of 
argument.  The  painting  is  beautiful,  the  expression 
exceedingly  serene,  soft,  yet  sagacious.  Yet,  it  is  not 
Christ ;  but  one  imagines  that  Guido's  is,  or  might  have 
been, 

Indeed,  in  almost  all  the  heads  of  Christ  which  I 
have  seen,  there  is  much  to  admire  but  nothing  to 
satisfy.  They  are  more  than  human,  but  not  divine. 
They  carry  you  up  a  certain  distance,  but  then  leave 
you  unsatisfied.  If  they  are  majestic,  they  are  stern; 
if  severe,  they  are  flat  and  expressionless ;  if  loving, 
they  are  effeminate.  Many  of  them,  by  old  masters,  are 
absolutely  shaggy  and  repulsive.  There  has  been  but 
4* 


82 


NATIONAL  GALLEKY. 


one  which  I  felt  to  be  even  an  approximation;  but  I 
have,  in  the  ocean  of  pictures,  lost  trace  of  it,  and  can 
not  recall  the  painter.  Yon  may  well  suppose  that  in 
Roman  Catholic  countries  this  subject  would  be  univer- 
sally tried  by  the  pencil.  A  very  large  gallery  made 
up  only  of  pictures  of  Christ  might  be  collected  ;  and, 
on  some  accounts,  it  would  not  be  a  thing  amiss. 

I  have  before  me  an  admirable  piece  by  Garcia — 
a  dead  Christ.    He  lies  at  full  length  across  the  knees 
of  his  mother,  his  lower  extremities  sustained  by  an 
angel,  who,  gazing  at  his  feet,  is  evidently  full  of  the 
past;  his  head  is  lovingly  upheld  by  another  angel, 
whose  bright  and  almost  smiling  face  is  full  of  the 
future;  while  his  mother  wears  the  perfect  expression 
of  deep,  inward,  maternal  anguish ;  not  the  grief  which 
outbursts,  but  the  still  grief  which  suffocates  and  kills. 
The  face  of  Christ  is  very  noble:  it  has  the  severest 
wisdom,  a  divine  intelligence,  a  sweet,  placid  endurance. 
But  it  lacks  that  suffusion  of  love,  from  which  all  these 
other  expressions  should  seem  to  spring.    It  is  this  that 
was  true  of  Christ,  and  it  is  this  that  all  pictures  lack. 
Love  was  the  true  nature  of  Christ.    It  was  love  that 
sent,  that  animated,  that  sustained  him.    Only  because 
of  his  great  loving  did  he  become  a  man  of  sorrow. 
All  other  qualities  must  spring  from  that.    That  must 
be  the  atmosphere,  and  other  expressions  must  be  bathed  * 
in  it.    It  is  this  very  element  that  painters  have  failed 
to  depict.    It  was  not  possible  for  it  to  be  otherwise. 
The  world's  idea  of  Christ  was  crude  and  partial ;  and 
the  part  which  was  entertained  was  magisterial. 


NATIONAL  GALLERY, 


83 


Veneration — in  an  age  of  veneration,  when  worship 
was  only  or  mostly  reverential,  and  not  through  justifi- 
cation by  a  faith  which  works  by  love — naturally  sought 
to  produce  a  kingly  liead  of  the  Saviour — a  head  that 
should  express  purity,  wisdom,  patience,  loftiness.  But 
these  should  have  been  the  adjuncts  of  Love.  There- 
fore, it  not  being  so,  I  feel  an  aching  want  in  the 
presence  of  every  representation.  The  youthful  Christ 
of  Guido  is  the  nearest  to  my  wish,  and  will  live  in  my 
remembrance. 

At  times  I  can  not  but  be  deeply  moved  by  these  pic* 
tures  of  the  Saviour.  I  seem  really  to  stand  in  his 
presence.  I  feel  overwhelmed  with  unworthiness.  It 
seems  as  if  my  inmost  soul  were  known  to  him,  my 
secret  sins  were  spread  before  him,  and  I  hardly  dared 
to  look  up.  I  know  that  he  will  forgive  them — but 
will  he  deliver  me  from  them?  It  is  not  a  want  of 
faith  in  Christ  for  the  past  that  I  lack — but,  0,  that  I 
might  have  a  Christ  who  should  assure  me  of  rescue 
and  purity  in  every  period  of  life  to  come !  All  my 
life  I  have  seen  what  was  holy,  just  and  good ;  and  all 
my  life,  that  which  I  would  be  is  so  far  beyond  what  I 
am,  and  seemingly  must  be,  that  the  struggle  seems 
well  nigh  useless,  and  Death  is  invoked  as  the  only 
effectual  deliverer. 

0 !  what  a  riches  of  enjoyment  must  there  be  to 
those  that  have -such  galleries  to  resort  to  at  leisure,  and 
in  all  their  different  moods.  It  is  impossible  to  be  omni- 
rnooded,  and  yet  without  this  it  is  not  possible  to  be  in 
sympathy  with  all  the  subjects;  and  unless  you  are  you 


84 


NATIONAL  GALLERY. 


can  not  rightly  behold  them.  Could  I  come  when  sadness 
prevails,  single  out  a  few  and  feed  upon  them, — and 
come  again  when  love  and  joy  predominated,  and  select 
such  as  that  inspiration  craved, — and  come  again  when 
feelings  of  reverence  would  make  it  easy  to  enter  into 
the  conceptions  of  old  masters,  and  so  on  through  all 
the  variations  of  the  mind's  estate, — how  rich  an  addi- 
tion would  such  galleries  be  to  the  refined  enjoyments 
of  life.  But  now  I  am  always  hastening  and  always 
haunted  with  the  feeling  that  I  may  never  see  them 
again ;  that  I  must  omit  nothing  which  I  should  regret 
afterward;  and  so  one  picture  destroys  another,  and  my 
mind,  like  a  daguerreotype  process,  constantly  inter- 
rupted, is  not  a  gallery  of  distinct  impressions,  but  for 
the  most  part  a  recess  of  gorgeous  confusion.  Yet  I 
have  reaped  much.  I  shall  be  able  to  think  many 
things  and  preach  many  things  which  otherwise  had 
been  impossible. 

Correggio. — His  name  was  always  familiar,  but  I 
have  learned  to  love  his  pictures.  Before  me  is  his 
" Ecce  Homo,"  or  Christ  crowned  with  thorns,  delivered 
up  by  Pilate.  The  painting,  merely,  is  exquisite.  The 
expression  of  Christ  is  that  of  weariness  and  drooping 
under  suffering.  It  is  too  human.  I  do  not  see  the 
God  shining  through  and  bearing  up  under  sorrow. 
The  Satan  of  Milton  could  endure !  And  if  we  can  not 
but  admire  the  infernal  heroism,  how  much  more  do  we 
demand  it  to  meet  our  conception  of  a  God !  His 
mother,  fainting,  is  falling  into  the  arms  of  John.  I 
had  felt  a  contempt  for  this  picture  from  having  seen 


NATIONAL  GALLERY, 


85 


some  engravings  of  it,  in  which  the  face  of  Mary  was 
pleasure-loving,  almost  voluptuous ;  but  in  the  painting 
it  is  that  of  intense  love  yet  lingering  on  a  mother's  face 
in  a  swoon,  and  is  rarely  and  exquisitely  beautiful. 

How  different,  how  violent  the  contrast  between  this 
and  the  next  of  his  pieces,  and  one  of  the  finest  of  his 
pencil:  Cupid  instructed  by  Mercury  under  the  aus- 
pices of  Venus.  Nothing  can  be  rounder,  softer,  and 
more  beautiful  than  every  figure  here.  Mercury  is  fulJ 
of  arch  sagacity,  as  if  inwardly  laughing  at  what  he  is 
doing ;  Cupid  has  the  slyest  mirth  all  over  his  face,  as 
if  almost  ready  to  burst  into  laughter  at  the  mischiefs  in 
prospect,  while  Venus  at  fall  length  by  his  side,  holding 
his  bow,  entirely  nude,  seems — I  do  not  know  how, 
f  neither  arch,  nor  mirthful,  nor  voluptuous,  but  all  of 
them! 

Rubens. — There  are  here  not  a  few  specimens  of  the 
works  of  this  artist.  He  was  twice  married,  and  his  second 
wife  he  seems  to  have  loved  entirely,  as  she  is  forced  into 
almost  every  picture  which  contains  a  female  face.  Thus, 
in  the  decision  of  Paris,  when  he  awarded  the  apple  to  the 
handsomest  of  all  the  goddesses,  Venus  has  his  wife's  face. 
In  the  fine  allegorical  picture  of  Peace  and  War,  the 
central  figure  is  his  wife.  In  the  abduction  of  the  Sa- 
bine women,  a  fine  Eoman  has  had  the  luck  to  get  his 
'  wife,  the  finest  woman  of  the  crowd.  In  that  noble 
picture,  the  Brazen  Serpent,  the  prominent  female  figure 
is  his  wife  again ;  and  in  the  Holy  Family  he  has  paint- 
ed not  only  her  again,  but  all  his  family.  This  fondness 
for  his  wife  is  amiable  enough  ;  but  it  redounds  to  the 

•5 


86 


NATIONAL  GALLERY. 


credit  of  his  heart  more  than  to  the  fertility  of  his  fancy. 
I  soon  am  tired  of  his  women.  They  are  so  well  fed, 
and  have  so  amazingly  thriven  on  their  food.  They 
are  not  alone  plump,  but  fat.  Therefore  you  may  im- 
agine that  one  less  sensitive  than  I  to  the  ridiculous 
would  feel  how  ludicrous  is  one  little  thing  of  his  en- 
titled an  Apotlieosis,  in  which  the  warrior,  about  to  be- 
come divine,  is  lying  all  abroad  in  the  air  with  his 
armor  on,  his  booted  feet  sprawling  wide  apart,  and 
himself  sustained  by  five  or  six  angelic  forms,  whose 
solidity  makes  the  idea  of  floating  even,  still  more  of 
rising — and  that  too  with  such  a  dumpish  jackanapes  in 
tow — supremely  laughable. 

Cuyp. — I  have  been  particularly  struck  with  the 
landscapes,  both  here  and  at  Paris,  of  this  artist,  and 
had  compared  him  to  Claude  in  the  margin  of  my  cata- 
logue; and  was  pleased,  this  morning,  at  finding  the 
same  sentence  in  the  descriptive  catalogue  of  the  Na- 
tional Gallery.  I  know  so  little  about  painting  that 
when  by  any  perception  or  sympathy  I  judge  as  I  ought 
to,  and  as  masters  have  done  who  both  feel  and  know 
better  than  I,  it  certainly  gives  me  pleasure. 

The  portraits  from  the  hand  of  Eembrandt  and  of 
Vandyke,  are  almost  as  interesting  to  look  long  at,  as  a 
group  of  figures  or  a  landscape.  I  can  not  tell  you,  who 
have  not  seen  them,  what  it  is  that  arrests  the  eye,  and 
fixes  it  upon  a  simple  head,  perhaps  of  an  imaginary 
person.  But  if  you  were  to  see  one,  you  would  appre- 
ciate it. 

When  T  read  the  criticisms  of  eminent  artists,  I  per- 


VERNON  GALLERY. 


87 


ceive  how  many  things  there  are  in  painting  of  which 
I  knew  nothing — things  which  are  known  only  by  edu- 
cation— as  in  literature,  the  graces,  the  style,  the  deli- 
cate shades  of  thought,  the  richest  beauties,  are  those 
which  the  untutored  do  not  grasp,  and  which  we  appre- 
ciate only  after  long  familiarity.  Some  few  of  these 
things  I  begin  to  find  struggling  for  a  birth  in  my  mind ; 
and  I  have  a  feeling  that,  had  I  the  opportunity,  I  could 
soon  grow  wise.  But  now,  when  I  have  the  pictures,  I 
have  no  leisure  to  read  such  works  as  would  greatly 
assist  me  ;  and  by  and  by,  when  I  have  the  leisure  and 
the  books,  I  shall  not  have  the  pictures  !  Well,  one  can 
not  be  everything !  Yet,  at  times,  I  rebel  at  the  thoughts 
of  how-  much  in  the  world  lies  within  the  grasp  of  my 
industry,  and  yet  that  I  should  live  a  mere  nothing ! 

I  visited  the  Vernon  collection  also  to-day.  I  do  not 
by  any  means  enjoy  it  as  I  do  the  National  Gallery. 
Yet  it  possesses  treasures,  which  at  home  would  be 
counted  precious  wonders. .  I  saw  the  originals  of  the 
engravings  which  have  enriched  the  London  Art-Union 
Journal  for  several  years  past. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  minute  accuracy  of  the  paint- 
ing, or  the  very  life  and  spirit  of  animals,  to  be  found 
in  Landseer's  paintings.  Fine  as  the  engravings  are, 
they  no  more  express  the  merit  of  the  canvas,  than  the 
canvas  expresses  the  actual  vitality  of  dogs  and  deer. 

I  was  delighted  with  Wilkie's  pictures  ;  for  example, 
Reading  the  News,  The  Piper ;  and,  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery, The  Penny  Wedding,  The  Blind  Fiddler,  The  Vil- 
lage Festival,  etc. 


88 


PAINTINGS. 


Such  of  Turner's  pictures  as  I  saw  were  utterly  dis- 
pleasing to  me.  I  rejoiced  over  Gainsborough,  a  copy 
of  one  of  whose  little  landscapes,  you  will  remember, 
I  have.  Ettey's  paintings  seemed  all  tinsel  to  me — 
skin — skin,  without  depth  or  thought,  just  such  things 
on  canvas  as  we  find  engraved  in  ladies'  magazines  for 
fashions.  Ah,  how  I  wished  that  I  might  own,  or  have 
within  reach,  the  young  female  figures  of  Greuze — a 
French  painter.  I  never  saw  such  sweetness,  innocence, 
and  simplicity  of  character.  They  are  not  at  all  insipid, 
as  innocence  usually  is,  at  least  on  canvas. 

Teniers  and  Ostade  are  names  which  are  almost  words 
of  description  with  novelists  and  descriptive  writers,  and 
it  was  pleasant  to  me  to  see  a  few  of  their-  works. 
Such  as  I  saw  were  very  close  and  smooth  imitations 
of  natural  objects. 

Poussin  always  seemed  cold  and  stiff  to  me,  and 
I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  look  upon  his  pictures. 
They  chilled  me,  or  tended  to  check  good  spirits. 

As  this  letter  is  a  sort  of  Charivari,  I  may  as  well 
stop  my  comment  upon  pictures,  and  tell  some  of  my 
rambles.  I  visited  the  graves  of  Wesley,  Watson,  and 
Adam  Clarke ;  and  opposite  to  the  yard  where  they  lie, 
in  Bunhill  fields,  the  graves  of  Wesley's  mother,  of  Dr. 
Owen,  Dr.  Watts,  and,  what  was  more  than  all  to  me, 
John  Bunyan  !  Think  of  the  difference,  in  their  day, 
of  this  poor  tinker,  and  the  notable  bishops  and  lords. 
But  now  I  feel  insulted,  or  rather  I  feel  worried  and 
annoyed,  to  see  the  worthless  names  of  men  who  were 
in  their  life  great  by  the  outside  only  or  chiefly  ; — while 


♦ 


LONDON. 


80 


I  feel  inspired  and  blessed  to  stand  by  the  spot  which 
bears  the  names  of  such  men  as  Bunyan  and  Wesley ! 
Such  as  they  are  the  true  men !  Their  own  day  knew 
them  not.  The  world  could  not  know  them  until  the 
breadth  of  their  fame  was  developed  by  time.  On  yes- 
terday I  visited  Cripplegate  church — in  which  Ben 
Jonson  was  married — Oliver  Cromwell,  also — where 
Fox,  the  martyrologist,  is  buried.  But  it  was  not  for 
these  that  I  went,  but  to  have  the  privilege  of  standing 
upon  the  stone  beneath  which  are  the  ashes  of  John 
Milton !  I  found  the  street  where  he  lived.  The  place 
on  which  his  house  stood  was  afterwards  a  bear  garden, 
then  a  brewery,  then  a  theater,  then  a  Methodist  chapel, 
and  now  is  built  again  into  dwelling-houses  ! 


f 


EXPERIENCES  OF  NATUKE. 


■ 


• 


EXPERIENCES  OF  NATURE. 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS. 

Happy  is  the  man  that  loves  flowers !  Happy,  even 
'  if  it  be  a  love  adulterated  with  vanity  and  strife.  For 
human  passions  nestle  in  flower-lovers  too.  Some 
employ  their  zeal  chiefly  in  horticultural  competitions, 
or  in  the  ambition  of  floral  shows.  Others  love  flowers 
as  curiosities,  and  search  for  novelties,  for  "sports,"  and 
vegetable  monstrosities.  We  have  been  led  through 
costly  collections  by  men  whose  chief  pleasure  seemed 
to  be  in  the  effect  which  their  treasures  produced  on 
others,  not  on  themselves.  Their  love  of  flowers  was 
only  the  love  of  being  praised  for  having  them.  But 
there  is  a  choice  in  vanities  and  ostentations.  A  contest 
of  roses  is  better  than  of  horses.  We  had  rather  be 
vain  of  the  best  tulip,  dahlia,  or  ranunculus,  than  of 
the  best  shot.  Of  all  fools,  a  floral  fool  deserves  the 
eminence. 

But  these  aside,  blessed  be  the  man  that  really  loves 


94 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS. 


flowers! — loves  them  for  their  own  sakes,  for  their 
beauty,  their  associations,  the  joy  they  have  given,  and 
always  will  give;  so  that  he  would  sit  down  among 
them  as  friends,  and  companions,  if  there  was  not 
another  creature  on  earth  to  admire  or  praise  them 
But  such  men  need  no  blessing  of  mine.  They  are 
%  blessed  of  God !  Did  He  not  make  the  world  for  such 
men  ?  Are  they  not  clearly  the  owners  of  the  world, 
and  the  richest  of  all  men? 

It  is  the  end  of  art  to  inoculate  men  with  the  love 
of  nature.  But  those  who  have  a  passion  for  nature  in 
the  natural  way,  need  no  pictures  nor  galleries.  Spring 
is  their  designer,  and  the  whole  year  their  artist. 

He  who  only  does  not  appreciate  floral  beauty  is 
to  be  pitied  like  any  other  man  who  is  born  imperfect. 
It  is  a  misfortune  not  unlike  blindness.  But  men 
who  contemptuously  reject  flowers  as  effeminate  and 
unworthy  of  manhood,  reveal  a  certain  coarseness. 
Were  flowers  fit  to  eat  or  drink,  were  they  stimulative 
of  passions,  or  could  they  be  gambled  with  like  stocks 
and  public  consciences,  they  would  take"  them  up  just 
where  finer  minds  would  drop  them,  who  love  them  as 
revelations  of  God's  sense  of  beauty,  as  addressed  to 
the  taste,  and  to  something  finer  and  deeper  than  taste, 
to  that  power  within  us  which  spiritualizes  matter,  and 
communes  with  God  through  His  work,  and  not  for 
their  paltry  market  value. 

Many  persons  lose  all  enjoyment  of  many  flowers  by 
indulging  false  associations.  There  be  some  who  think 
that  no  weed  can  be  of  interest  as  a  flower.    But  all 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWEES.  95 


flowers  are  weeds  where  they  grow  wildly  and  abun- 
dantly; and  somewhere  our  rarest  flowers  are  some- 
body's commonest.  Flowers  growing  in  noisome  places, 
in  desolate  corners,  upon  rubbish,  or  rank  desolation, 
become  disagreeable  by  association.  Eoadside  flowers, 
ineradicable,  and  hardy  beyond  all  discouragement,  lose 
themselves  from  our  sense  of  delicacy  and  protection.  # 
And,  generally,  there  is  a  disposition  to  undervalue 
common  flowers.  There  are  few  that  will  trouble 
themselves  to  examine,  minutely,  a  blossom  that  they 
have  seen  and  neglected  from  their  childhood ;  and  yet 
if  they  would  but  question  such  flowers,  and  commune 
with  them,  they  would  often  be  surprised  to  find 
extreme  beauty  where  it  had  long  been  overlooked. 

If  a  plant  be  uncouth,  it  has  no  attractions  to  us 
simply  because  it  has  been  brought  from  the  ends  of 
the  earth  and  is  a  "great  rarity;"  if  it  has  beauty, 
it  is  none  the  less,  but  a  great  deal  more  attractive  to 
us,  because  it  is  common.  A  very  common  flower 
adds  generosity  to  beauty.  It  gives  joy  to  the  poor, 
the  rude,  and  to  the  multitudes  who  could  have  no 
flowers  were  nature  to  charge  a  price  for  her  blossoms. 
Is  a  cloud  less  beautiful,  or  a  sea,  or  a  mountain, 
because  often  seen,  or  seen  by  millions  ? 

At  any  rate,  while  we  lose  no  fondness  for  eminent 
and  accomplished  flowers,  we  are  conscious  of  a  growing 
respect  for  the  floral  democratic  throng.  There  is,  for 
instance,  the  mullein,  of  but  little  beauty  in  each 
floweret,  but  a  brave  plant,  growing  cheerfully  and 
heartily  out  of  abandoned  soils,  ruffling  its  root  about 


96 


A  DISCOUESE  OF  FLOWERS 


with*  broad-palmed,  generous,  velvet  leaves,  and  erect- 
ing therefrom  a  towering  spire  that  always  inclines  us 
to  stop  for  a  kindly  look.  This  fine  plant  is  left,  by 
most  people,  like  a  decayed  old  gentleman,  to  a  good- 
natured  pity.  But  in  other  countries  it  is  a  flower,  and 
called  the  "  American  velvet  plant." 

We  confess  to  a  homely  enthusiasm  for  clover, — not 
the  white  clover,  beloved  of  honey-bees, — but  the  red 
clover.  It  holds  up  its  round,  ruddy  face  and  honest 
head  with  such  rustic  innocence !  Do  you  ever  see  it 
without  thinking  of  a  sound,  sensible,  country  lass,  sun- 
browned  and  fearless,  as  innocence  always  should  be  ? 
We  go  through  a  field  of  red  clover,  like  Solomon  in  a 
garden  of  spices. 

There  is  the  burdock  too,  with  its  prickly  rosettes, 
that  has  little  beauty  or  value,  except  (like  some  kind, 
brown,  good-natured  nurses)  as  an  amusement  to  chil- 
dren, who  manufacture  baskets,  houses,  and  various 
marvelous  utensils,  of  its  burrs.  The  thistle  is  a 
prince.  Let  any  man  that  has  an  eye  for  beauty  take 
a  view  of  the  whole  plant,  and  where  will  he  see  more 
expressive  grace  and  symmetry ;  and  where  is  there  a 
more  kingly  flower?  To  be  sure,  there  are  sharp 
objections  to  it  in  a  boquet.  Neither  is  it  a  safe 
neighbor  to  the  farm,  having  a  habit  of  scattering  its 
seeds  like  a  very  heretic.  But  most  gardeners  feel 
toward  a  thistle  as  boys  toward  a  snake;  and 
farmers,  with  more  reason,  dread  it  like  a  plague. 
But  it  is  just  as  beautiful  as  if  it  were  a  universal 
favorite. 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS.  97 

What  shall  we  say  of  mayweed,  irreverently  called 
dog-fennel  by  some  ?  Its  acrid  juice,  its  heavy  pungent 
odor,  make  it  disagreeable ;  and  being  disagreeable,  its 
enormous  Malthusian  propensities  to  increase  render  it 
hateful  to  damsels  of  white  stockings,  compelled  to 
walk  through  it  on  dewy  mornings.  Arise,  0  scythe, 
and  devour  it ! 

The  buttercup  is  a  flower  of  our  childhood,  and  very 
brilliant  in  our  eyes.  Its  strong  color,  seen  afar  off, 
often  provoked  its  fate ;  for  through  the  mowing-lot  we 
went  after  it,  regardless  of  orchard-grass  and  herd-grass, 
plucking  down  its  long,  slender  stems  crowned  with 
golden  chalices,  until  the  father  covetous  of  hay 
shouted  to  us,  "Out  of  that  grass!  out  of  that  grass! 
you  rogue  1" 

The  first  thing  that  defies  the  frost  in  spring  is  the 
duckweed.  It  will  open  its  floral  eye  and  look  the 
thermometer  in  the  face  at  32° ;  it  leads  out  the  snow- 
drop and  crocus.  Its  blossom  is  diminutive:  and  no 
wonder,  for  it  begins  so  early  in  the  season  that  it  has 
little  time  to  make  much  of  itself.  But,  as  a  harbinger 
and  herald,  let  it  not  be  forgotten. 

You  can  not  forget,  if  you  would,  those  golden  kisses 
all  over  the  cheeks  of  the  meadow,  queerly  called 
dandelions.  There  are  many  green-house  blossoms  less 
pleasing  to  us  than  these.  And  we  have  reached 
through  many  a  fence,  since  we  were  incarcerated,  like 
them,  in  a  city,  to  pluck  one  of  these  yellow  flower 
drops.  Their  passing  away  is  more  spiritual  than  their 
bloom.  Nothing  can  be  more  airy  and  beautiful  than 
5 


98  A  DISCO  UKSE  OF  FLO  WEES. 

the  transparent  seed-globe — a  fairy  dome  of  splendid 
architecture. 

As  for  marigolds,  poppies,  hollyhocks,  and  valoious 
sunflowers,  we  shall  never  have  a  garden  without  them, 
both  for  their  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  old-fash- 
ioned folks,  who  used  to  love  them.  Morning-glories 
— or,  to  call  them  by  their  city  name,  the  convolvulus 
— need  no  praising.    The  vine,  the  leaf,  the  exquisite 
vase-formed  flower,  the  delicate  and  various  colors,  will 
secure  it  from  neglect  while  taste  remains.  Grape 
blossoms  and  mignonnette  do  not  appeal  to  the  eye; 
and  if  they  were  selfish  no  man  would  care  for  them. 
Yet  because  they  pour  their  life  out  in  fragrance  they 
are  always   loved,  and,  like   homely   people  with 
noble  hearts,  they  seem  beautiful  by  association.  No- 
thing that  produces  constant  pleasure  in  us  can  fail  to 
seem  beautiful.    We  do  not  need  to  speak  for  that 
universal  favorite — -the  rose !    As  a  flower  is  the  finest 
stroke  of  creation,  so  the  rose  is  the  happiest  hit  among 
flowers !    Yet,  in  the  feast  of  ever  blooming  roses,  and 
of  double  roses,  we  are  in  danger  of  being  perverted 
from  a  love  of  simplicity,  as  manifested  in  the  wild, 
single  rose.    When  a  man  can  look  upon  the  simple, 
wild  rose  and  feel  no  pleasure,  his  taste  has  been 
corrupted. 

But  we  must  not  neglect  the  blossoms  of  fruit-trees. 
What  a  great  heart  an  apple-tree  must  have!  What 
generous  work  it  makes  of  blossoming !  It  is  not  con- 
tent with  a  single  bloom  for  each  apple  that  is  to  be ; 
but  a  profusion,  a  prodigality  of  blossom  there  must  be. 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS. 


99 


The  tree  is  but  a  huge  boquet.  It  gives  you  twenty 
times  as  much  as  there  is  need  for,  and  evidently 
because  it  loves  to  blossom.  We  will  praise  this 
virtuous  tree.  Not  beautiful  in  form,  often  clumpy, 
cragged,  and  rude ;  but  it  is  glorious  in  beauty  when 
efflorescent.  Nor  is  it  a  beauty  only  at  a  distance  and 
in  the  mass.  Pluck  down  a  twig  and  examine  as 
closely  as  you  will;  it  will  bear  the  nearest  looking. 
The  simplicity  and  purity  of  the  white  expanded  flower, 
the  half  open  buds  slightly  blushed,  the  little  pink- 
tipped  buds  unopen,  crowding  up  together  like  rosy 
children '  around  an  elder  brother  or  sister,  can  any 
thing  surpass  it?  Why  here  is  a  cluster  more  beau- 
tiful than  any  you  can  make  up  artificially  even  if  you 
select  from  the  whole  garden!  Wear  this  family  of 
buds  for  my  sake.  It  is  all  the  better  for  being  com- 
mon. I  love  a  flower  that  all  may  have ;  that  belongs 
to  the  whole,  and  not  to  a  select  and  exclusive  few. 
Common,  forsooth !  a  flower  can  not  be  worn  out  by 
much  looking  at,  as  a  road  is  by  much  travel. 

How  one  exhales,  and  feels  his  childhood  coming 
back  to  him,  when,  emerging  from  the  hard  and  hateful 
city  streets,  he  sees  orchards  and  gardens  in  sheeted 
bloom, — plum,  cherry,  pear,  peach,  and  apple,  waves 
and  billows  of  blossoms  rolling  over  the  hill  sides,  and 
down  through  the  levels !  My  heart  runs  riot.  This 
is  a  kingdom  of  glory.  The  bees  know  it.  Are  the 
blossoms  singing  ?  or  is  all  this  humming  sound  the 
music  of  bees  ?  The  frivolous  flies,  that  never  seem  to 
be  thinking  of  any  thing,  are  rather  sober  and  solemn 


100 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS. 


here.  Such  a  sight  is  equal  to  a  sunset,  which  is  but  a 
blossoming  of  the  clouds. 

"We  love  to  fancy  that  a  flower  is  the  point  of  trans- 
ition at  which  a  material  thing  touches  the  immaterial ; 
it  is  the  sentient  vegetable  soul.  We  ascribe  dispo- 
sitions to  it ;  we  treat  it  as  we  would  an  innocent  child. 
A  stem  or  root  has  no  suggestion  of  life.  A  leaf 
advances  toward  it;  and  some  leaves  are  as  fine  as 
flowers,  and  have,  moreover,  a  grace  of  motion  seldom 
had  by  flowers.  Flowers  have  an  expression  of  coun- 
tenance as  much  as  men  or  animals.  Some  seem  to 
smile ;  some  have  a  sad  expression ;  some  are  pensive 
and  diffident;  others  again  are  plain,  honest,  and  up- 
right, like  the  broad-faced  sunflower  and  the  hollyhock. 
We  find  ourselves  speaking  of  them  as  laughing,  as 
gay  and  coquettish,  as  nodding  and  dancing.  No  man 
of  sensibility  ever  spoke  of  a  flower  as  he  would  of  a 
fungus,  a  pebble,  or  a  sponge.  Indeed,  they  are  more 
life-like  than  many  animals.  We  commune  with 
flowers — we  go  to  them  if  we  are  sad  or  glad;  but 
a  toad,  a  worm,  an  insect,  we  repel,  as  if  real  life  was 
not  half  so  real  as  imaginary  life.  What  a  pity  flowers 
can  utter  no  sound!  A  singing  rose,  a  whispering 
violet,  a  murmuring  honeysuckle!  0,  what  a  rare 
and  exquisite  miracle  would  these  be. 

When  we  hear  melodious  sounds, — the  wind  among 
trees,  the  noise  of  a  brook  falling  down  into  a  deep 
leaf-covered  cavity — birds*  notes,  especially  at  night; 
children's  voices  as  you  ride  into  a  village  at  dusk,  far 
from  your  long  absent  home,  and  quite  home-sick ;  or 


- 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS.  101 

a  flute  heard  from  out  of  a  forest,  a  silver  sound  rising 
up  among~silver-lit  leaves,  into  the  moon-lighted  air  ; 
or  the  low  conversations  of  persons  whom  you  love, 
that  sit  at  the  fire  in  the  room,  where  you  are  conva- 
lescing ; — when  we  think  of  these  things  we  are  apt  to 
imagine  that  nothing  is  perfect  that  has  not  the  gift  of 
sound.  But  we  change  our  mind  when  we  dwell  lov- 
ingly among  flowers;  for,  they  are  always  silent 
Sound  is  never  associated  with  them.  They  speak 
to  you,  but  it  is  as  the  eye  speaks,  by  vibrations  of 
light  and  not  of  air. 

It  is  with  flowers  as  with  friends.  Many  may  be 
loved,  but  few  much  loved.  Wild  honeysuckles  in 
the  wood,  laurel  bushes  in  the  very  regality  of  bloom, 
are  very  beautiful  to  you.  But  they  are  color  and  form 
only.  They  seem  strangers  to  you.  You  have  no 
memories  reposed  in  them.  They  bring  back  nothing 
from  Time.  They  point  to  nothing  in  the  future.  But 
a  wild-brier  starts  a  genial  feeling.  It  is  the  country 
cousin  of  the  rose ;  and  that  has  always  been  your  pet. 
You  have  nursed  it,  and  defended  it ;  you  have  had  it 
for  companionship  as  you  wrote ;  it  has  stood  by  your 
pillow  while  sick ;  it  has  brought  remembrance  to  you, 
and  conveyed  your  kindest  feelings  to  others.  You 
remember  it  as  a  mother's  favorite ;  it  speaks  to  you  of 
your  own  childhood, — that  white  rosebush  that  snowed, 
in  the  corner,  by  the  door;  that  generous  bush  that 
blushed  red  in  the  garden  with  a  thousand  flowers, 
whose  gorgeousness  was  among  the  first  things  that 
drew  your  childish  eye,  and  which  always  comes  up 


102 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS 


before  you  when  you  speak  of  childhood.  You  re* 
member,  too,  that  your  mother  loved  roses.  As  you 
walked  to  church  she  plucked  off  a  bud  and  gave  you, 
which  you  carried  because  you  were  proud  to  do  as  she 
did.  You  remember  how,  in  the  listening  hour  of  ser- 
mon, her  roses  fell  neglected  on  her  lap — and  how  you 
slyly  drew  one  and  another  of  them ;  and  how,  when 
she  came  to,  she  looked  for  them  under  her  handker- 
chief, and  on  the  floor,  until,  spying  the  ill-repressed 
glee  of  your  face,  she  smiled  such  a  look  of  love  upon 
you,  as  made  a  rose  for  ever  after  seem  to  you  as  if  it 
smiled  a  mother's  smile.  And  so  a  wild  rose,  a  prairie 
rose,  or  a  sweet-brier,  that  at  evening  fills  the  air  with 
odor,  (a  floral  nightingale  whose  song  is  perfume,) 
greets  you  as  a  dear  and  intimate  friend.  You  almost 
wish  to  get  out,  as  you  travel,  and  inquire  after  their 
health,  and  ask  if  they  wish  to  send  any  messages  by 
you  to  their  town  friends. 

But  no  flower  can  be  so  strange,  or  so  new,  that  a 
friendliness  does  not  spring  up  at  once  between  you. 
You  gather  them  up  along  your  rambles ;  and  sit  down 
to  make  their  acquaintance  on  some  shaded  bank  with 
your  feet  over  the  brook,  where  your  shoes  feed  their 
vanity  as  in  a  mirror.  You  assort  them ;  you  question 
their  graces ;  you  enjoy  their  odor ;  you  range  them  on 
the  grass  in  a  row  and  look  from  one  to  another ;  you 
gather  them  up,  and  study  a  fit  gradation  of  colors,  and 
search  for  new  specimens  to  fill  the  degrees  between 
too  violent  extremes.  All  the  while,  and  it  is  a  long 
while,  if  the  day  be  gracious  and  leisure  ample,  various 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS. 


103 


suggestions  and  analogies  of  life  are  darting  in  and  out 
of  your  mind.  This  flower  is  like  some  friend;  another 
reminds  you  of  mignonnette,  and  mignonnette  always 
makes  you  think  of  such  a  garden  and  mansion  where 
it  enacted  some  memorable  part ;  and  that  flower  con- 
veys some  strange  and  unexpected  resemblance  to  cer- 
tain events  of  society ;  this  one  is  a  bold  soldier ;  that 
one  is  a  sweet  lady  dear ; — the  white  flowering  blood- 
root,  trooping  up  by  the  side  of  a  decaying  log,  recalls 
to  your  fancy  a  band  of  white  bannered  knights ;  and 
so  your  pleased  attention  strays  through  a  thousand 
vagaries  of  fancy,  or  memory,  or  vaticinating  hope. 

Yet,  these  are  not  home  flowers.  You  did  not  plant 
them.  You  have  not  screened  them.  You  have  not 
watched  their  growth,  plucked  away  voracious  worms, 
or  nibbling  bugs ;  you  have  not  seen  them  in  the  same 
places  year  after  year,  children  of  your  care  and  love. 
Around  such  there  is  an  artificial  life,  an  association  al 
beauty,  a  fragrance  and  grace  of  the  affections,  that  no 
wild  flowers  can  have. 

It  is  a  matter  of  gratitude  that  this  finest  gift  of  Pro- 
vidence is  the  most  profusely  given.  Flowers  can  not 
be  monopolized.  The  poor  can  have  them  as  much  as 
the  rich.  It  does  not  require  such  an  education  to  love 
and  appreciate  them,  as  it  would  to  admire  a  picture  of 
Turner's,  or  a  statue  of  Thorwaldsen's.  And,  as  they 
are  messengers  of  affection,  tokens  of  remembrance,  and 
presents  of  beauty,  of  universal  acceptance,  it  is  pleasant 
to  think  that  all  men  recognize  a  brief  brotherhood  in 
them.    It  is  not  impertinent  to  offer  flowers  to  a  stran- 


104 


i 

A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS. 


ger.  The  poorest  child  can  proffer  them  to  the  richest 
A  hundred  persons  turned  together  into  a  meadow 
full  of  flowers  would  be  drawn  together  in  a  transient 
brotherhood. 

It  is  affecting  to  see  how  serviceable  flowers  often 
are  to  the  necessities  of  the  poor.  If  they  bring  their 
little  floral  gift  to  you,  it  can  not  but  touch  your  heart 
to  think  that  their  grateful  affection  longed  to  express 
itself  as  much  as  yours.  You  have  books,  or  gems,  or 
services,  that  you  can  render  as  you  will.  The  poor 
can  give  but  little,  and  do  but  little.  Were  it  not  for 
flowers  they  would  be  shut  out  from  those  exquisite 
pleasures  which  spring  from  such  gifts.  I  never  take 
one  from  a  child,  or  from  the  poor,  that  I  do  not  thank 
God  in  their  behalf  for  flowers ! 

And  then,  when  Death  enters  a  poor  man's  house !  It 
may  be,  the  child  was  the  only  creature  that  loved  the  un- 
befriended  father — really  loved  him ;  loved  him  utterly. 
Or,  it  may  be,  it  is  an  only  son,  and  his  mother  a 
widow — who,  in  all  his  sickness,  felt  the  limitation  of 
her  poverty  for  her  darling's  sake  as  she  never  had  for 
her  own;  and  did  what  she  could,  but  not  what  she 
would,  had  there  been  wealth.  The  coffin  is  pine.  The 
undertaker  sold  it  with  a  jerk  of  indifference  and  haste, 
lest  he  should  lose  the  selling  of  a  rosewood  coffin, 
trimmed  with  splendid  silver  screws.  The  room  is 
small.  The  attendant  neighbors  are  few.  The  shroud 
is  coarse.  O !  the  darling  child  was  fit  for  whatever 
was  most  excellent,  and  the  heart  aches  to  do  for  him 
whatever  could  be  done  that  should  speak  love.  It 


A  DISCOURSE  OF  FLOWERS 


105 


takes  money  for  fine  linen ;  money  for  costly  sepulture. 
But  flowers,  thank  God,  tlie  poorest  may  have.  So, 
put  white  buds  in  the  hair — and  honey-dew,  and  mig- 
nonnette,  and  half  blown  roses,  on  the  breast.  If  it  be 
spring,  a  few  white  violets  will  do ;  and  there  is  not  a 
month  till  November,  that  will  not  give  you  something. 
But  if  it  is  winter,  and  you  have  no  single  pot  of  roses, 
then  I  fear  your  darling  must  be  buried  without  a 
flower ;  for  flowers  cost  money  in  the  winter ! 

And  then,  if  you  can  not  give  a  stone  to  mark  his 
burial-place,  a  rose  may  stand  there ;  and  from  it  you 
may,  every  spring,  pluck  a  bud  for  your,  bosom,  as  the 
child  was  broken  off  from  you.  And  if  it  brings  tears 
for  the  past,  you  will  not  see  the  flowers  fade  and  come 
again,  and  fade  and  come  again,  year  by  year,  and  not 
learn  a  lesson  of  the  resurrection — when  that  which 
perished  here  shall  revive  again,  never  more  to  droop 
or  to  die. 

5* 


II. 


DEATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Woodstock,  Conn.,  July  28,  1851. 

There  is  something  peculiarly  impressive  to  me  in 
the  old  New  England  custom  of  announcing  a  death. 
In  a  village  of  but  a  few  hundred  inhabitants,  all  are 
known  to  each.  There  are  no  strangers.  The  village 
church,  the  Sabbath  school,  and  the  district  school 
have  been  channels  of  intercommunication ;  so  that  one 
is  acquainted  with  not  only  the  persons,  but,  too  often, 
with  the  affairs,  domestic  and  secular,  of  every  dweller 
in  the  town. 

A  thousand  die  in  the  city  every  month,  and  there  is 
no  void  apparent.  The  vast  population  speedily  closes 
over  the  emptied  space.  The  hearts  that  were  grouped 
about  the  deceased  doubtless  suffer  alike  in  the  country 
and  in  the  city.  But,  outside  of  this  special  grief,  there 
is  a  moment's  sadness,  a  dash  of  sympathy ;  and  then 
life  closes  over  the  grief  as  waters  fill  the  void  made 
when  a  bucketful  is  drawn  out  of  the  ocean ! 

There  goes  a  city  funeral !  Well,  I  wonder  who  it  is 
that  is  journeying  so  quietly  to  his  last  home?  He 
was  not  in  my  house,  nor  of  my  circle ;  his  life  was  not 
a  thread  woven  with  mine ;  I  did  not  see  him  before, 
I  shall  not  miss  him  now.  We  did  not  greet  at  the 
church ;  we  did  not  vote  at  the  town  meeting ;  we  had 
not  gone  together  upon  sleigh-rides,  skatings,  huskings, 


DEATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


107 


fishings,  trainings,  or  elections.  Therefore  it  is  that 
men  of  might  die  daily  about  us,  and  we  have  no  sense 
of  it,  any  more  than  we  perceive  it  when  a  neighbor 
extinguishes  his  lamp.  And  when  one  is  buried — ah, 
a  city  burial !  Amidst  drays  and  carts,  in  the  thunder 
of  a  million  wheels,  a  few  carriages  fall  behind  a  grim 
and  heathenish  hearse,  black  as  midnight;  for  hearses 
are  made,  as  all  our  funeral  habits  are,  to  express  but 
one  unbroken  sorrow,  as  if  a  Christian  heart  had  but 
that  experience !  It  is  a  shame  that  eighteen  hundred 
years  of  Christianity  yet  leave  Death  grim  and  dismal 
as  a  devil's  cave.  To  be  sure  there  is  sorrow,  but  there 
is  sorrow  ended  as  well  as  begun ;  there  is  release,  there 
is  rest,  there  is  victory,  as  well  as  bereavement.  And 
yet,  no  badge  of  hope,  not  one  sign  of  cheer,  not  a  color 
or  insignia  of  immortal  joy  and  beauty,  mingles  with 
the  black  crape  and  plumes  of  Christian  heathenism 
about  the  tomb !  But  I  wander.  When  the  procession 
starts,  it  moves  through  the  crowded  street  scarcely 
attracting  a  look.  No  one  asks  the  useless  question, 
Who  is  it  ?  ISTd  one  knows  or  cares.  There  it  goes — 
a  black  pilgrimage  through  a  dusty,  roaring  street, 
wending  its  way  toward  Greenwood.  "When  the  city 
is  well  nigh  cleared,  then  begins  a  gentle  funeral  trot, 
as  if  the  attraction  of  the  grave  accelerated  our  pace  as 
we  drew  nearer.  Blessed  portal!  only  within  these 
bounds  do  we  seem  to  receive  from  nature  those  lessons 
of  death  which  we  refuse  to  learn  of  Christianity.  The 
very  hills  of  life  are  here !  Yonder,  where  men  live, 
is  only  noise  and  dust,  heat  and  smoke,  canker  and 


108 


DEATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


care !  But  liere  every  curve  and  slope  speaks  beauty 
and  peace.  Almost  only  here  the  sun  falls  tranquilly, 
and  flowers  thrive,  and  winds  make  harps  of  every 
tree,  and  birds,  unblemished  and  unterrified,  rejoice. 
Surely  these  are  the  vales  that  speak  of  life!  One 
must  needs  smile,  and,  in  spite  of  our  perverse  education, 
feel  some  joy  as  we  lay  down  the  weary  body  to  its 
rest.  One  enters  Greenwood  with  a  sense  of  relief. 
The  air  changes  at  the  g&te.  We  leave  our  burdens 
outside.  But  when  we  have  laid  the  dust  within  its 
parent's  bosom,  we  emerge  into  the  world  again  as  into 
a  prison.  It  is  a  blessed  contrast  to  have  so  much 
peace  and  so  deep  a  beauty  close  by  the  city,  silently 
putting  life  to  shame,  and  winning  grief  thitherward, 
as  if  to  the  bosom  of  a  parent ! 

It  was  upon  the  very  day  that  we  arrived  in  Wood- 
stock, upon  this  broad  and  high  hill-top,  in  the  after- 
noon, as  we  were  sitting  in  ransomed  bliss,  rejoicing  in 
the  boundless  hemisphere  above,  and  in  the  beautiful 
sweep  of  hills  feathered  with  woods,  and  cultivated 
fields  ruffled  with  fences,  and  full,  here  and  there,  of 
pictures  of  trees,  single  or  in  rounded  groups:  it  was 
as  we  sat  thus,  the  children,  three  families  of  them, 
scattered  out,  racing  and  shouting  upon  the  village 
green  before  us,  that  the  church  bell  swung  round 
merrily,  as  if  preluding,  or  clearing  its  throat  for  some 
message.  It  is  "five  o'clock- — what  can  that  bell  be 
ringing  for  ?  Is  there  a  meeting  ?  Perhaps  a  prepara- 
tory lecture.  It  stops.  Then  one  deep  stroke  is  given, 
and  all  is  still.    Every  one  stops.    Some  one  is  dead. 


DEATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


109 


Another  solemn  stroke  goes  vibrating  through  the 
crystal  air,  and  calls  scores  more  to  the  doors.  Who 
can  be  dead?  Another  solitary  peal  wafts  its  message 
tremulously  along  the  air;  and  that  long,  gradually 
dying  vibration  of  a  country  bell — never  heard  amid 
the  noises  of  the  air  in  a  city — swelling  and  falling, 
swelling  and  falling;  aerial  waves,  voices  of  invisible 
spirits  communing  with  each  other  as  they  bear  aloft 
the  ransomed  one ! 

But  now  its  warning  voice  is  given.  All  are  listening. 
Ten  sharp,  distinct  strokes — and  a  pause;  some  one  is 
ten  years  old  of  earth's  age.  No ;  ten  more  follow-  • 
twenty  years  is  it?  Ten  more  tell  us  that  it  is  an 
adult.  Ten  more  and  ten  more,  and  twice  ten  again, 
and  one  final  stroke  count  the  age,  seventy-one  I  Seventy- 
one  years?  Were  they  long,  weary,  sorrowful  years? 
Was  it  a  corrugated  wretch  who  clung  ignobly  to  life  ? 
Was  it  a  venerable  sire,  weary  of  waiting  for  the  silver 
cord  to  be  loosed?  Seventy-one  years!  Shall  I  see 
as  many  ?  And  if  I  do,  the  hill-top  is  already  turned 
and  I  am  going  down  upon  the  further  side!  How 
long  to  look  forward  to!  how  short  to  look  back  upon ! 
Age  and  youth  look  upon  life  from  the  opposite  ends 
of  the  telescope:  it  is  exceedingly  long,  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly short!  To  one  who  muses  thus,  the  very 
strokes  of  the  bell  seem  to  emblem  life.  Each  is 
like  a  year,  and  all  of  them  roll  away  as  in  a  moment 
and  are  gone. 


III. 


ISLAND  VS.  SEASHORE. 

Woodstock,  Conn.,  August,  1851. 

My  dear  Brother  Storrs: — Your  first  letter  from 
Newport  was  pleasant  to  read.  I  rejoiced  in  your 
pleasure,  but  was  quite  aroused  by  your  heresies.  I 
do  not  mean  any  unsoundness  of  faith,  but  of  taste. 
Do  you  not  set  forth  the  joys  of  a  fashionable  and 
crowded  watering-place  in  terms  that  would  draw 
thither  a  very  recluse?  I  take  up  arms  for  the  true 
country ; — the  pure  and  undefiled  place  of  Nature  I 

Pray  tell  me  whether  there  is  in  Newport  such  a 
thing  as  quiet?  How  many  people  have  you  there, 
every  one  on  the  search  for  amusement  ?  Do  you  ever 
get  rid  of  noise,  or  crowds,  or  excitements  ?  You  only 
exchange  hot  and  dusty  excitement,  for  excitements 
with  sea-breezes.  Can  you  find  a  place  out  of  doors  to 
be  alone  in  for  half-an-hour  ?  You  can  not  go  out  of 
doors  without  meeting  somebody.  Somebody  is  liable 
to  be  acquainted  with  you  at  every  turn.  Something 
is  always  "  going  on "  in  town.  You  are  as  much 
in  society  and  as  little  with  Nature  as  if  in  the  old, 
thundering  city. 

But  here,  in  this  quiet,  hill-top  town,  is  the  pro- 
foundest  peace.  The  clouds  in  the  air  are  hardly  more 
alone  than  we.  We  have  the  plenitude  of  Nature  in 
some  of  her  loveliest  aspects,  and  it  requires  an  effort  to 


INLAND  VS.  SEASHORE.  Ill 

« 

get  into  company  as  great  as  for  yon  to  get  ont  of  it 
A  man  may  sink  down  within  himself  in  the  pro* 
foundest  meditation.  Nobody  calls  to  see  you.  Nobody 
knows  that  you  are  here.  You  float,  like  a  mote  in 
•sunbeams,  where  you  will,  up  or  down,  hither  or 
thither,  without  contact  and  in  silence.  The  whole  air 
is  marvelous  by  its  stillness.  It  is  still  in  the  morning, 
at  noon,  at  sunset,  at  dark,  and  still  all  night.  Early 
m  the  morning,  from  four  to  five,  the  birds  say  their 
v  matins.  (Alas !  Jenny  Lind,  you  would  be  no  bird 
here  !)  The  stalwart  lord  of  the  barnyard  starts  up 
and  challenges  a  hundred  other  cocks  and  cockerels  of 
each  degree.  Then  come  the  obstreperous  children  and 
coaxing  nurses.  These  noises  over,  you  have  had  the 
last  of  it.    Nothing  else  makes  a  noise  in  this  village. 

Indeed,  this  is  quite  a  wonder  of  a  village  to  all  who 
love  quiet  and  a  beautiful  prospect.  Its  like  I  do  not 
know  anywhere.  It  is  a  miniature  Mount  Holyoke; 
and  its  prospect,  the  Connecticut  Valley  in  miniature. 
It  is  placidly  spread  upon  a  hill-top  so  high  up  that 
dust,  sound  and  insects  have  forsaken  it,  or  never 
found  their  way  hither.  It  is  marvelous  how  a  village 
can  exist  without  any  apparent  trades.  But,  as  far  as  I 
can  perceive,  there  are  no  occupations  here  of  any  sort. 
There  is  a  blacksmith's  shop,  which  never  makes  a 
noise,  and  that  is  all.  No  carpenter's  shop,  nor  cabinet- 
makers, nor  turners ;  no  hatters,  saddlers,  watchmaker 
or  shoemaker,  that  I  can  see.  No  houses  are  building ; 
we  hear  no  trowel  clinking,  or  muffled  hammer-stroke  ; 
there  is  no  mortar-making — no  piles  of  brick  or  lumber. 


112  INLAOT)  VS.  SEASHORE. 

The  town  was  finished  long  ago :  and  all  workmen  of 
every  sort  seem  to  have  gone  off  and  left  dear  old 
Woodstock  all  to  itself.  Even  travelers  leave  our  soli- 
tude unbroken.  There  is  no  tavern  on  the  street ;  and 
the  two  little  tranquil  stores  might  plant  corn  up  to* 
their  very  door  steps  without  much  fear  of  its  being 
trodden  down.  Once  in  a  while,  toward  evening,  a 
farmer's  wagon  skirts  along  the  edge  of  the  green. 
Such  a  sight  brings  us  to  the  windows.  But  it  is  a  short 
and  headlong  drive,  as  if  the  rider  felt  guilty  for  dis- 
turbing the  peace,  or  raising  a  dust,  even  for  a  moment. 
Some  twenty  houses,  white  and  yard-inclosed,  stand 
modestly  apart,  and  back  from  the  long,  broad  village- 
green  which  they  inclose  but  do  not  shut  in.  This 
village-green  is  neither  a  circle,  square,  parallelogram, 
nor  polygon,  but  a  space  sloping  chiefly  from  north  to 
south,  and  in  some  places  eastward  and  westward,  with 
no  shape  at  all,  but  coming  nearer  than  to  any  thing 
else  to  the  form  of  an  elongated  flat-iron.  For  a  long 
time,  seeing  no  people  in  the  street,  no  one  going  in  or 
coming  out  of  the  doors,  no  persons  in  the  window,  or 
even  smoke  in  the  chimneys,  neither  babies,  boys,  nor 
maidens,  being  anywhere  discernible,  I  supposed,  for 
the  first  week,  that  only  old  people  lived  here, — nice, 
tidy,  quiet  old  people,  such  as  I  saw  on  Sundays  keep- 
ing themselves  awake  in  church  by  nibbling  fennel  or 
caraway.  I  was  mistaken.  Familiarity  has  enabled 
me  to  detect  signs  of  life  in  all  its  varieties.  But  the 
habit  of  the  place  is  to  be  quiet.  I  wonder  whether  the 
children  cry  or  not?    I  wonder  if  the  sober,  tranquD 


INLAND  VS.  SEASH0KE. 


113 


people  ever  made  a  noise  in  their  life?  How  long  ia 
it  since  they  subsided  and  tranquilized  ? 

The  air  breathes  as  if  it  were  iced  sherbet.  You  have 
a  distinct  luxury  in  each  particular  breath.  You  halt 
voluntarily  and  cultivate  inspiration.  The  sun,  that 
rages  in  the  valleys  below,  and  wilts  down  the  crowds 
in  the  sweltering  cities,  here  walks  in  cool  brightness 
through  the  heavens,  tempering  the  air  to  that  delicious 
point  at  which  the  chill  is  lost,  but  heat  has  not  begun. 
Your  coolness  is  all  imported.  You  are  hot  in  that 
pent-up,  narrow-streeted,  rackety  Newport,  and  cooled 
only  by  the  sea-breeze.  Coolness  with  you  is  a  thing 
inserted.  But  here  it  is  indigenous.  It  belongs  to  the 
very  texture  of  the  air.  You  may  have  the  sea-shore, 
waves  and  surf,  storms  once  in  a  while,  bathing  and 
fishing — all,  except  the  last,  boisterous.  Beside,  you 
have  the  buzzing  enthusiasm  of  thousands  around  you. 
Your  pulse  never  gets  down,  your  eye  never  cools. 
Why,  my  dear  fellow,  you  see  persons  from  the  city 
eveiy  day !  You  get  the  papers  the  very  day  of  their 
publication !    Do  you  call  that  the  country  ? 

As  for  me,  if  I  please  to  bathe,  I  have  a  little  lake 
down  yonder.  Just  now  there  is  not  a  ripple  on  its 
surface — a  falling  insect  here  and  there  dimples  it,  and 
a  fish,  in  taking  in  the  petty  Jonah,  increases  the  dimple 
to  a  circlet.  When,  wading  on  the  silver  sand,  I  at 
length  have  depth  to  plunge,  the  ripple  runs  half  across 
to  yonder  shore.  Fishing?  yes,  I  go  down  with  great 
possessions  of  various  tackle ;  but  the  perch  are  small, 
pickerel  scarce,  and  pout  only  go  out  at  dusk ;  so  that  one 


1.14 


INLAND  VS.  SEASHORE. 


forgets  his  line,  and  falls  off  into  a  dream,  or  rows  about 
the  tranquil  river,  along  the  fringe  of  bushes,  then 
among  lily-pads,  then  toward  the  mouth  of  the  inlet, 
then  along  the  shaded  edge,  where  deep,  dark  pine- 
woods  forever  murmur.  Now  and  then  a  fish  leaps  up 
and  falls  back  with  a  plash.  Or  your  oar,  poised  for  a 
second,  sheds  musical  pearls  into  the  pure  lake,  or  the 
cracking  of  sticks  tells  you  that  a  cow  breaks  through 
the  thicket  to  drink — two  cows  evidently  in  the  water, 
one  drinking  upward  and  the  other  downward,  lip  to 
lip !  These  are  our  bathings  and  fishings.  By  the  way, 
those  white  pond-lilies!  Is  there  another  flower,  its 
adjuncts  also  considered,  so  exquisitely  beautiful.  The 
rare  form  of  its  elongated  cup,  the  interior  coronet  of 
stamens  and  pistils,  delicately  gold-colored,  the  green 
and  pink-edged  sepals,  its  delicious  fragrance,  make  it  a 
very  queen.  It  chooses  some  nook  or  bay  along  the 
lake's  edge,  spreads  out  its  large  shield-like  leaf,  and 
floats  its  snow-white  blossom  on  the  surface.  Flowers 
growing  from  the  soil  are  full  beautiful,  but  flowers  grow- 
ing out  of  crystal  water  are  beyond  all  words  of  beauty. 

In  the  morning,  look  out  eastward.  A  vale  with 
every  conceivable  undulation  stretches  full  thirty  miles 
from  north  to  south.  It  lies  almost  under  you.  It  is  so 
near  that  you  see  the  farm-houses,  the  orchards,  the 
groups  of  trees,  the  corn-fields,  the  yellow  rye,  and  the 
now  half-ripe  oats.  It  is  not  an  even,  level  valley,  but 
a  collection  of  wide  swells  or  rolls  of  land  setting  in  on 
the  north,  and  but  half  commingling  when  they  reach 
the  lake  right  over  opposite  to  us.    Indeed,  so  broken 


INLAND  VS.  SEASHORE. 


115 


and  stony  arc  the  features,  that  it  would  not  be  a  valley 
at  all  if  it  were  not  for  the  hills  that  shut  it  in  on  either 
side.  And  these  hills  are  made  up  of  multitudes  of  little 
hills  piled  together  in  every  way  that  is  beautiful.  The 
little  stream,  that  finds  its  course  through  the  valley 
among  mounds  and  rounds  and  hillocks,  seems  uncer- 
tain of  its  way,  and  sets  trees  and  bushes  along  its 
banks,  for  fear  of  forgetting  where  to  flow.  The  brook 
has  fairly  reflected  itself  in  the  air — fo*  see  that  film  of 
silver  mist,  thin  as  gauze,  hanging  above  the  stream, 
clear  down  to  the  lake ! 

O,  see  the  lake! — or,  rather,  see  the  robes  of  mist 
that  hide  it !  The  sun  is  at  them.  They  are  wreathing, 
moving,  lifting  up,  and  moving  off,  sun-colored  in  their 
depths,  but  silver-edged!  Now  the  water  reflects  the 
morning.  At  noon  it  will  be  breezy,  and  whitish,  or 
steel-gray.  At  night  it  will  be  black  as  ink.  In  the 
early  part  of  the  day  the  lakelet  speaks  of  life ;  but  at 
twilight  it  seems  to  think  of  death. 

"But  what  do  you  do  for  amusement?"  Why,  sir, 
we  do  not  receive  company,  or  make  calls,  or  ride  about 
among  a  caravan  of  dandy  vehicles,  or  "go  with  the 
multitude"  in  a-swimming,  or  anything  else  that  implies 
excitement  or  company.  Be  it  known,  however,  that 
we  have  a  select  few  here,  to  whom  quiet  is  enjoyment. 
We  look  at  the  picture-gallery  of  God  in  the  heavens, 
with  never  two  days'  pictures  alike ;  we  sit  down  with 
our  books  on  the  brow  of  the  breezy  hill,  under  an  old 
chestnut  tree,  and  read  sor^ptimes  the  book,  sometimes 
the  landscape,  sometimes  the  highland  clouds ;  we  wait 


116 


ZS.  SEASHORE 


till  the  evening  sun  begins  to  emit  rose-colored  light, 
and  then  we  take  rides  along  the  edges  of  woods,  upon 
unfrequented  roads,  across  suspicious  bridges,  along 
forest  paths  leading  no  one  knows  where,  and  coming 
out  just  at  the  very  spot  we  did  not  expect.  In  this 
perilous  journeying  we  often  breathe  our  horse  while 
we  collect  flowers,  leaves,  mosses,  and  grasses ;  and  we 
get  home  at  the  most  urgent  moment  of  sunset,  just  in 
time  to  go  up  into  the  observatory  and  see  the  wide  and 
wonderful  glory,  of  which  for  a  moment  we  utter  ex- 
clamations— "Look  at  that  islet  of  fire,"  "and  that  deep 
crimson  bank,"  "and  that  exquisite  blue  between  those 
rifts  of  fire,"  "  and  that  dove-colored  cloud  with  a  bronze- 
colored  molding  and  fringe!"  But  words  are  foolish  1 
And  we  sink  away  to  silence,  and  only  gaze  and  think ! 

But,  on  other  days  we  vary  the  entertainment ;  for 
there  is  an  inexhaustible  variety.  Behold  us  then — the 
ladies  incipiently  Bloomerized — wending  afoot  along 
the  road  leading  out  of  town  westward.  Before  we  are 
half  out  of  sight  of  the  houses,  the  road  is  lined  with 
blackberries.  The  high-blackberry  is  yet  holding  back, 
but  the  low-blackberry,  trailing  all  over  the  banks  and 
covering  the  rocks,  is  in  high  condition.  How  large 
and  plump  are  these  unhandled  berries !  It  is  a  marvel 
how  such  little  mouths  as  I  see  can  get  a  whole  one  in.: 
We  are  soon  satisfied.  Now  for  boquets  of  wayside 
flowers.  Spireas,  one,  two,  three,  four  species !  Golden  j 
rod,  a  lingering  bud  or  two  on  the  wild  rose ;  and  here! 
are  pussies,  as  the  children  call  the  velvet  little  mul* 
berry -shaped  posies :  and  here  are  flowering  grasses, 

• 


INLAND  VS.  SEASHORE. 


117 


and  rushes,  and  ferns,  and  green  leaves  diverse  and 
innumerable ; — and  a  leaf  is  as  pretty  as  a  flower,  any 
day,  if  you  will  only  think  so.  Here,  too,  is  the  trailing 
strawberry,  whose  vine,  inwoven  with  buds  of  spirea, 
will  make  your  lady  a  queen-like  coronet. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  forks  of  the  road,  and 
yonder  is  a  whortleberry  patch !  Even  at  a  table,  in  a 
saucer,  with  cream  and  spoon,  berries  are  not  to  be 
despised.  But  the  bush  is  the  only  fit  table,  j^our  hand 
the  best  spoon,  and  your  exhilaration  the  richest  cream. 
Commend  me  to  a  rocky  hill-side,  full  of  crickets,  grass- 
hoppers, butterflies,  and  birds,  with  blue  berries,  whortle- 
berries, and,  about  the  edges  of  the  field,  blackberries, 
millions  and  millions  more  than  you,  and  all  the  village 
boys,  and  all  the  country  girls,  and  all  the  little  birds  in 
the  air  or  out  of  the  woods,  can  eat !  By  the  way,  have 
you  locusts,  and  chirping  crickets,  and  stridulous  grass- 
hoppers, in  Newport?  A  few  crickets,  perhaps,  in  the 
ashes,  or  cracks  of  the  hearth,  which  you  hunt  with 
brush  and  broom,  as  soon  as  their  shrill  song  disturbs 
you.  But  grasshoppers,  brown,  green,  and  gray,  you 
have  not  in  Newport,  I  know.  You  can  not  sit  upon  a 
gray,  shelving  rock,  ruffled  about  with  bushes,  half  of 
them  in  flower,  and  the  rest  full  of  berries,  covered  but 
in  nowise  cushioned  with  filmy  lichens,  and  see  grass- 
hoppers, those  speculators  of  the  pasture,  which  jump 
first,  and  consider  afterwards  where  they  shall  land. 
There  goes  one  upon  a  spider's  web,  half  broken  through 
by  its  sprawling  descent.  .  Unwelcome  morsel !  It  is 
doubtful  which  is  most  alarmed,  spider  or  grasshopper* 


118  INLAND  VS.  SEASHORE 

Doubtless  you  have  human  spiders  and  webs,  and 
entangled  insects  about  you,  in  that  fashionable  water- 
ing-place. 

There  are  a  world  of  things  to  be  considered  on  the 
way  home.  Mosses  must  be  gathered ;  new  flowers  are 
espied;  a  deal  of  engineering  is  required  to  scale  the 
fences;  and  I  have  never  seen  a  lady  tottering  on  a 
stone  fence,  anxiously  securing  her  skirts,  with  reef  and 
double  reef/  across  whose  mind  convictions  did  not  flash 
in  favor  of  Bloomerism.  Then  this  piece  of  twilight 
wood  must  be  threaded,  the  golden-freckled  ground 
admired,  and  the  long  shadows  which  it  flings  across 
the  road  and  upon  the  meadow  observed ;  and  when,  at 
length,  you  are  safely  home  again,  and  daintily  refreshed 
or;  the  whitest  bread,  the  freshest  butter,  and  berries  of 
your  own  picking,  you  sit  an  hour  in  the  cool,  shady 
veranda,  and  think  it  must  be  eleven  o'clock,  but  find 
by  your  watch  that  it  is  only  eight,  you  protest  that 
never  were  days  so  long,  never  days  so  full  of  joy, 
deep  and  quiet,  and  never  nights  of  unwinking  sleep  so 
refreshing. 

.1  have  it  in  my  heart  to  tell  you  of  our  experiences 
in  country  thunder-storms ;  of  sunsets  gorgeously  fol- 
lowing storms ;  of  moonlight  scenery ;  of  village  scenes 
and  country  customs,  awakening  in  us  that  were  coun- 
try bred,  thousands  of  dear  recollections  of  youth  and 
home.  But  I  spare  you !  I  trust  that  you  sinned  in 
your  enthusiasm  for  Newport  through  ignorance.  I 
should  be  loth  to  think  you  so  hardened  in  your  desire 
to  build  there  three  tabernacles  for  the  trine-editorship 


INLAND  VS.  SEASHORE. 


119 


of  The  Independent  I  will  therefore  wait  to  see  if  you 
recant  your  theses  of  heresy.  But  if  you  again  shall 
declare  them,  and  post  them  on  the  broadside  of  The 
Independent — as  Luther  did  his  on  the  church-door — it 
will  then  be  time  to  bring  up  these  other  forces. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  sure,  that  your  children  have  not 
half  the  chance  in  a  fashionable  watering-place  that  ours 
here  have,  for  frolic  and  health,  in  this  little  serene  vil- 
lage-wilderness. Here  they  are,  perched  like  eagles  on 
a  cliff,  and  I  am  delighted  to  see  how  much  children 
sympathize  with  landscape  beauty,  sunsets,  cloud-flocks, 
and  all  the  variable  phases  of  Nature.  But  this  long, 
sloping  green,  and  the  rounded  sides  of  the  almost  pre- 
cipitous hill  which  the  village  crowns,  are  their  chief 
joy.  All  day  long  they  are  abroad,  and  the  darkness 
hardly  drives  them  in.  Bad  company  is  impossible 
where  there  is  no  company.  All  day  long  they  race  and 
chase,  or  go  a-berrying,  or  gather  under  the  shade  of 
orchards  or  elms  to  relate  marvelous  stories;  or  they 
dig  profound  wells,  in  which,  for  lack  of  water,  they 
impound  solemn  toads ;  they  hunt  hen's  nests ;  and  the 
lesser  urchins  disturb  the  gravity  of  old  matronly  hens 
by  sundry  attempts  at  catching  them.  They  gather 
about  the  cow  at  milking,  or  drive  her  to  pasture,  or 
ride  the  horses  to  water;  and  once  in  a  week  they 
proudly  vex  the  mill-pond  with  hook  and  line,  and 
astonish  their  simple  parents  with  two  perch  and  four 
roach,  caught,  strung,  sandy  and  dry !  They  have  no 
time  for  quarreling,  and  it  seems  impossible  for  them 
to  devise  any  mischief  meritorious  of  a  whipping. 


120* 


INLAND  VS.  SEASHOKE. 


But,  good-bye,  my  dear  friend !  May  I  live  to  see 
you  again  and  grasp  your  hand  in  fellowship  of  our 
common  work. 

P.  S.  At  length  I  have  discovered  a  cabinet-maker's 
shop!  but  there  was  nothing  going  on  therein. 


♦ 

IT. 

NEW  ENGLAND  GRAVEYARDS. 

Woodstock,  Conn.,  August  30>  1853. 

When  this  reaches  you,  I  shall  have  spent  six  suc- 
cessive Sabbaths  in  the  State  of  Connecticut — the  longest 
period  of  sojourn  within  this,  the  State  of  my  birth,  for 
twenty-five  years.  During  this  quarter  of  a  century,,  she 
has  partaken  largely  of  the  changes  that  have  gone  on 
throughout  New  England.    Her  old  towns  have  grown 
rusty,  and  lie  up  upon  her  high  places  to  the  coolness 
of  summer,  and  to  the  roaring  winds  of  winter,  in  a 
tranquillity  which  would  soothe  the  progressive  fears  of 
the  most  rooted  conservative.    Young  men,  as  soon  as 
they  attain  their  majority,  push  off  to  the  West  or 
South,  or  to  the  nearest  manufacturing  village  or  rail- 
road depot.    Thus,  the  uplifted  towns,  seen  afar,  upon 
their  mighty  hills,  lie  like  a  dream ;  while  their  offspring 
villages  in  the  valleys  below  whirl  like  a  top  with  enter 
prise.    The  gods  of  the  valley  are  mightier  in  New 
England  than  the  gods  of  the  hills;  the  loom  is  too 
strong  for  the  plow.   Indeed,  farmers1  boys  are  the  most- 
profitable  crop  that  New  England  farms  can  now  pro- 
duce.   To  ride  about  these  endlessly  diversified  hills, 
and  marvel  at  their  beauty,  and  rejoice  in  their  associa- 
tions, is,  I  am  persuaded,  a  much  easier  way  of  spending 
time  than  to  subdue  them,  and  compel  them  to  render 
up  remunerating  harvests.   One  would  think  that  there 
6 


122.  NEW  ENGLAND  GRAVEYARDS. 

had  been,  at  some  time,  a  hailstorm  of  granite  bowlders, 
and  a  rain  of  small  stones  to  boot,  along  these  hills.  I 
have  seen  a  number  of  farms  on  which  must  have  origi- 
nated the  affecting  stories  of  sheep  having  their  noses 
sharpened  to  get  the  grass  between  the  stones,  and  grass- 
hoppers clinging  to  mullen  stalks  with  tears  in  their 
eyes  from  very  hunger.  And  yet  it  is  surprising  to  see 
how  much  soil  labor  has  redeemed  from  rock  and  stone, 
and  smoothed  and  enriched  into  deep  and  mellow  tilth. 
The  rugged  pastures  which  inclose  many  of  these  beauti- 
ful farms  are  samples  of  what  the  farms  once  were,  and 
a  gauge  of  the  degree  of  labor  which  they  have  cost.  A 
highly  cultivated  farm  is  always  an  object  of  beauty ; 
Dut  in  the  rocky  parts  of  New  England,  a  fine  farm  has 
a  moral  beauty ;  it  is  an  enduring  mark  and  measure  of 
indomitable  industry.  And  the  best  of  all  is,  that, 
while  the  men  make  the  farms,  the  farms  thus  make  the 
men.  There  is  scarcely  a  homestead  to  be  met,  far  or 
near,  that  has  not  reared  some  man  who  is  or  has  been 
distinguished  in  public  life.  Nor  can  I  think  of  a 
worthier  aim,  during  the  summer  vacations  of  profes- 
sional men,  than  to  return  to  their  native  places,  and 
gather  up  the  memorials  of  past  days,  and  in  the  lives, 
customs,  and  familiar  events  of  the  past  and  passing 
generations,  furnish  materials  for  history.  Why  should 
not  all  the  old  mansions  and  farm-houses  be  secured  by 
daguerreotype,  before  they  crumble?  "Lossing's  Field 
Book  of  the  Kevolution"  is,  on  this  account,  worthy  of 
all  praise.  But  why  should  the  memorials  of  only  our 
revolutionary  worthies  be  preserved  ?    Why  not  thct 


NEW  ENGLAND  Git  AVE  YARDS.  123 

birth-places  of  eminent  civilians,  clergymen,  inventors, 
schoolmasters,  and  of  all  others  who  have  worthily 
served  their  generation  ?  Dr.  Sprague,  of  Albany,  has 
in  preparation  the  lives  of  the  most  noted  American 
clergymen,  now  deceased, — -a  work  which  we  believe, 
from  a  slight  taste  which  we  have  privately  had,  will  be 
of  the  highest  interest.  Why  should  there  not  be  illus- 
trations, so  easily  and  cheaply  procured,  of  their  resi- 
dences,  birth-houses,  their  churches,  and  of  their  monu- 
ments or  simple  tomb-stones ;  and  if  there  is  none  even 
of  these,  then  of  the  spots  or  graveyards  where  they  lie? 

By  the  by,  speaking  of  graveyards,  one  can  not  but 
be  pained  at  the  desolation  of  these  places  in  so  many 
New  England  towns.  Once  decently  buried,  and  a 
stone  erected,  the  labor  of  love  ends,  and  the  memorials 
are  given  over  to  the  elements.  It  is  painful  to  me,  for 
the  most  part,  to  walk  through  the  New  England  grave 
yards,  always  excepting  the  noble  cemeteries  which 
within  a  few  jears  have  begun  to  spring  up  near  the 
larger  towns  and  cities.  The  fences  are  dilapidated,  the 
head-stones  broken,  or  swayed  half  over,  the  intervals 
choked  up  with  briers,  elders,  and  fat-weeds;  and  the 
whole  place  bearing  impress  of  the  most  frigid  indiffer- 
ence. Yet,  'nowhere  on  earth  is  death  more  solemn 
than  in  New  England,  nor  the  remembrance  of  the  dead 
more  ineffaceable.  Nowhere  else  is  man  valued  so 
highly,  or  his  loss  more  universally  felt.  But  there 
seems  to  be  little  thought  of  anything  that  is  not  in 
some  way  connected  with  practical  utility.  If  the 
departed  could  be  made  one  whit  happier,— if  it  were 


124  NEW  ENGLAND  GRAVEYARDS. 

• 

dreamed  that  the  beautifying  of  the  grave  would  even 
be  noticed  by  those  whose  bodies  sleep  there, — nowhere 
else  in  the  world  would  loving  care  continue  to  be 
lavished  upon  the  inclosing  soil,  more  than  in  New 
England.  But  the  habits  of  the  people  make  a  thorough 
separation  between  the  living  and  the  dead.  The  the- 
ology has  entered  into  the  practical  ways  of  life.  The 
dead  are  utterly  gone.  God  has  them  in  another  world. 
Their  state  is  fixed  and  unalterable.  So  thinking,  it 
seems  of  but  little  worth  to  garnish  their  sleeping  places. 
But  in  part,  this  neglect  in  New  England  is  owing  to  a 
want  of  education  and  of  a  love  of  the  graceful  and 
the  beautiful.  It  is  a  pain  to  us  to  tread  these  places. 
Were  I  buried  here,  it  seems  as  if  my  bones  would 
pluck  at  these  disgraceful  weeds  and  thistles,  should 
they  penetrate  the  mold  above  my  head.  I  can  not  help 
feeling  that  it  is  a  shame  and  disgrace  that  the  only 
places  in  thrifty  New  England  where  weeds  are  allowed 
to  grow  unmolested  are  graveyards,  where  the  bodies 
of  our  sweet  children,  where  father  and  mother,  brother 
and  sister,  husband  and  wife,  rest  till  the  resurrection. 
Cows  and  horses  are  often  allowed  to  pasture  on  the 
graves ;  thus  saving  the  expense  of  mowing,  beside  a 
clear  gain  in  grass !  One  of  the  finest  orchards  in  Sher- 
burne, Mass.,  is  that  which  flourishes  upon  the  old  town 
graveyard  (now  private  property).  The  remains  of  a  suc- 
cession of  their  former  pastors,  and  one  president  of  Har- 
vard College,  lie  under  the  roots  of  these  profitable  trees. 

It  is  impossible  that  pleasant  associations  can  exist 
with  the  place  of  burial  under  such  circumstances.  The 


NEW  ENGLAND  GRAVEYARDS. 


125 


grossest  dreads  hedge  about  the  spot  which  a  Christian 
faith  should  hallow  and  enrich.  "Who  would  not  shrink 
from  being  buried  under  wild  parsneps,  burdocks, 
blackberry  bushes,  and  hardhack?  It  were  better  to 
be  burned,  or  to  sink  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea!  One 
loves  to  wander  through  Greenwood,  and  think  of  such 
a  resting-place  for  his  body  when  life  is  done.  Those 
quiet  rounds  and  hills,  sacred  from  carelessness  or  in- 
trusion, over  which  trees  cast  their  checkered  shadows, 
and  sing  their  music,  how  cheering  and  how  refining 
are  such  associations!  They  tempt  us  frequently 
thither.  Our  children  are  pleased  to  go.  Death  begins 
to  be  more  easily  thought  of.  It  becomes  associated 
with  themes  which  often  inspire  and  sanctify  the  im- 
agination. Christ,  the  Victor  and  Eedemptor — our 
own  victory  and  redemption;  heaven,  and  renewed 
friendship,  higher  loves,  and  inconceivable  joys; — these 
themes  find  in  such  places  an  easy  association  with  our 
thoughts,  andR  life  becomes  dignified  by  the  estimate 
which  we  place  upon  death.  Besides,  it  is  a  blessed 
attainment  when  we  can  so  associate  the  truths  of  God's 
word  with  natural  objects,  that  one  is,  in  a  manner, 
reading  his  Bible  in  flowers,  in  forests,  in  sunlight,  and 
at  twilight,  always,  everywhere,  and  in  every  thing. 
It  is  a  blessed  thing  to  have  converted  death  into  a 
joy ;  yea,  to  kindle  up  in  its  portals  a  light  that  shines 
backward  upon  our  path  of  life,  and  cheers  us  onward 
toward  it,  as  if  it  were,  as  it  is,  our  home  and  glory. 
For  death  is  the  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man.  A  Chris- 
tian ought  not  to  be  afraid  of  his  Father's  bosom. 


126 


NEW  ENGLAND  GRAVEYARDS 


But  liow  should  one  not  shrink  from  burial  if  lie 
sees  that  all  who  have  gone  before  him  are  cast  out  into 
a  place  of  desolation,  where  friends  will  not  choose  to 
come,  or  will  come  to  wade  through  matted  grass  and 
tangled  weeds,  and  push  away  bush  and  brier  to  read 
his  decaying  name;  and  hasten  away,  dreading  the 
cheerless  day  that  shall  bring  their  bodies,  too,  to  the 
home  of  the  refuse  and  worn  out !  0 !  may  the  sun 
pierce  through  the  shade  of  trees,  dear  to  many  birds, 
to  fall  in  checkered  light  upon  my  grave!  I  ask  no 
stone  or  word  of  inscription.  May  flowers  be  the  only 
memorials  of  my  grave,  renewed  every  spring,  and 
maintained  through  the  long  summer ! 

To  a  certain  extent  this  matter  will  be  reformed  by 
the  selection  of  grounds  in  imitation  of  our  suburban 
cemeteries.  But  this  should  not  hinder  an  immediate 
attention  to  the  simple  burial-grounds  which  must  long 
be  the  only  resting-places  for  the  departed  of  our  villages. 
And  although  any  one  who  has  Christian  refinement 
will  feel  an  interest  in  mending  the  grossness  of  preva- 
lent custom,  is  it  not  a  peculiarly  fit  labor  of  love  for 
vjoman  ?  The  ladies  of  any  parish  have  but  to  deter- 
mine that  the  resting-places  of  their  ancestors  shall  bud 
and  blossom  as  the  rose,  and  it  will  be  done.  Let  clean 
and  sufficient  fences  be  made;  let  the  borders  and 
paths  be  planted  with  shade  trees ;  let  the  side-paths 
be  lined  with  roses,  vines,  and  free-growing  shrubs : 
let  the  grass  be  shorn  at  least  every  month ;  let 
measures  be  taken  to  erect  again  the  drooping  head- 
stones of  the  ancient  dead,  and,  if  needful,  retrace  the 


NEW  ENGLAND  GKATEYABDS. 


127 


effaced  letters;  for  all  these  tilings  are  within  the  reach 
of  every  village  parish  in  New  England. 

We  stood  with  peculiar  pleasure,  but  a  few  days  ago, 
in  the  burial-place  of  the  family  of  UNCAS,  in  Norwich, 
Conn.,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Yantic.  Blessed  be  the 
hands  that  traced  that  inclosure,  and  builded  the  simple 
shaft  of  granite  that  bears  the  only  word  "Uncas." 
About  fifty  descendants,  even  to  the  last  of  his  noble 
line,  lie  sleeping  about  him.  At  but  a  little  distance  is 
the  ground  where  the  Indians  buried  their  sachems. 
Bringing  them  up  the  cove  in  their  canoes,  they  ascended 
a  dark  and  beautiful  ravine  to  the  broad  bluff-head,  and 
there  laid  them  down  in  burial  upon  its  level  circuit. 
This  very  ground  is  now  the  property  of  Ik  Marvel, 
(the  pleasant  author  of  much  summer  literature,)  upon 
which  he  proposes  erecting  his  dwelling.  At  first  one 
reluctates  at  such  a  use.  Yet,  as  all  other  Indian  haunts 
are  now  possessed  by  streets  and  dwellings — No,  we  are 
not  satisfied,  after  all,  that  it  should  be  so.  But,  if  it 
must  be,  we  are  thankful  that  a  genial  soul,  alive  to  all 
the  associations  of  the  place — finding  inspiration  in  them 
— perhaps  embalming  their  histories  in  his  literary  works, 
will  rear  his  mansion  over  the  dust  of  many  generations 
of  the  mighty  men  of  the  forest.  Perhaps,  as  he  sits  in 
thoughtful  twilight,  reflecting  over  the  graves  of  those 
who  once  were  chiefs  among  their  fellows,  but  who 
now  have  faded  away  to  a  mere  memory,  he  may  be 
inspired  to  associate  his  labors  with  the  moral  growth 
of  his  age,  that  so  Ms  memory  shall  never  fade,  but 
stand  in  freshness  and  glory,  even  after  the  trump  shall 


128 


NEW  ENGLAND  GRAVEYARDS. 


have  called  forth  his  reanimated  dust,  and  that  of  his 
dusky  predecessors,  to  the  morning  of  ordeal  and  of 
glory. 

I  must  reserve  for  a  separate  letter  some  few  words 
about  Norwich,  the  most  picturesque  of  all  the  towns 
of  Connecticut. 


y. 


TOWNS  AND  TREES. 

Norwich,  Conn.,  August  30,  1851. 

There  are  hundreds  of  villages  in  Connecticut  that 
are  beautiful  in  various  degrees  and  by  different  methods ; 
some  by  the  width  of  prospect,  some  by  their  mountain 
scenery,  some  by  their  position  on  the  water,  and  some, 
nestled  away  from  all  the  world,  find  their  chief  attrac- 
tions in  their  deep  tranquillity.  But  in  every  place  the 
chief  beauty  must  be  in  what  Nature  has  done,  or  in 
what  man  has  done  naturally.  The  rocks,  hills,  moun- 
tains ;  the  innumerable  forms  of  water  in  springs,  rills, 
rivulets,  streams,  estuaries,  lakes  or  ocean;  but  above 
all  the  trees — these  create  beauty,  if  it  exist  at  all.  It  is 
rare  that  any  place  combines  to  a  great  degree  the  several 
specialities  mentioned.  A  place  that  is  inland,  and  yet 
on  the  seaboard — that  has  bold,  precipitous  rocks  close 
at  hand,  and  at  the  same  time  is  spread  out  upon  a 
champaign — that  unites  the  refinements  belonging  to 
society  in  large  towns  with  the  freshness  and  quiet  of 
a  secluded  village,  imbosomed  in  trees,  full  of  shaded 
yards  and  gardens,  broad,  park-like  streets,  soon  opening 
out  into  romantic  rural  roads  among  pine  woods  along 
the  rocky  edges  of  dark  streams — such  a  place,  especially 
if  its  society  is  good,  if  its  ministers,  teachers,  civilians, 
and  principal  citizens,  are  intelligent  and  refined,  and 
6* 


130 


TOWNS  AND  TKEES. 


its  historical  associations  abundant  and  rich — must  be 
regarded  as  of  all  others  the  most  desirable  for  residence. 
And  such  a  place  is  Norwich,  Connecticut! 

The  river  Thames  is  formed  by  the  junction  of  the 
Yantic  and  the  Shetucket.  Upon  the  angle  of  these 
three  streams  stands  the  town.  The  Shetucket  is  a 
black  water  in  all  its  course,  and  near  to  Norwich  it  has 
a  bed  hewed  out  of  rocks,  and  cliffs  for  banks.  The 
Yantic  is  a  smaller  stream,  rolling  also  over  a  rocky 
channel,  with  a  beautiful  plunge,  just  above  the  town,  of 
seventy-five  feet.  The  Thames  is  not  so  much  a  river 
as  a  narrow  arm  of  the  sea,  thrust  far  up  inland  as  if  to 
search  for  tributary  streams.  These  ribbon-like  bays 
mark  the  whole  northern  coast  of  Long  Island  Sound. 
The  Thames  is  navigable  for  large  steamers  to  its  point 
of  formation.  The  conformation  of  the  ground  on  which 
Norwich  stands  is  entirely  peculiar.  Along  the  water 
it  is  comparatively  low,  affording  a  business  plane,  and 
a  space  for  railroad  necessities.  The  whole  ground  then 
rises  with  sudden  slope,  lifting  the  residences  far  up  out 
of  the  dust  and  noise  of  business  into  an  altitude  of 
quiet.  But  what  is  the  most  remarkable  is,  that  a  huge 
broad-backed  granite  cliff  of  rocks  bulges  up  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  city,  cutting  it  in  two,  extending  backward 
half  a  mile,  and  leaving  the  streets  to  sweep  around  on 
either  side  of  it.  This  masterly  old  monarch  looks 
down  a  hundred  feet  perpendicular,  on  the  eastern 
side,  upon  the  streets  below,  its  bare  rocks  and  massive 
ledges  here  and  there  half  hid  by  evergreens,  and  in 
spots  matted  with  grass,  and  fringed  with  shrubs.  On  the 


TOWNS  AND  TREES 


131 


western  side  the  slope  is  gradual,  and  it  is  cut  half  way 
down  to  the  Yantic  by  a  broad  street,  nobly  shaded  with 
stalwart  elms,  and  filled  with  fine  family  residences. 
As  one  winds  his  way  from  the  landing  up  the  curving 
street,  about  the  base  of  the  rock  on  the  eastern  side,  at 
evening  especially,  in  twilight,  or  with  a  tender  moon- 
light, this  wild  uplifted  cliff — in  the  very  heart  of  a  city, 
with  forest  trees  rooted  almost  plumb  above  his  head 
— ha^  a  strange  and  changeable  uncertainty,  at  one 
moment  shining  out  distinctly,  and  at  the  next  dim  and 
shadowy ;  now  easily  compassed  by  the  eye,  and  then 
glancing  away,  if  he  have  imagination  enough,  into 
vast  mountain  spaces.  This  singular  rocky  ridge  trends 
toward  the  north,  and  gradually  loses  itself  in  the  plain 
on  which  stands  Norwich  Old  Town.  There  is  thus 
brought  together,  within  the  space  of  a  mile,  the  city, 
the  country,  and  the  wilderness.  The  residences  are  so 
separated  from  the  business  part  of  the  town,  that  one 
who  comes  first  into  the  upper  part  of  the  city,  and 
wanders  about  under  its  avenues  of  mighty  elms,  and 
among  its  simple  old  houses,  or  its  modern  mansions, 
would  take  it  to  be  a  place  of  elegant  repose,  without 
life  or  business.  But  if  he  first  lands  below,  amid  stores 
and  manufacturing  shops,  as  for  several  years  we  did, 
he  might  go  away  thinking  Norwich  to  be  a  mere  ham- 
mering, rumbling  place  of  business.  Indeed,  there  are 
three  towns  in  one.  The  streets  skirting  the  water  form 
a  city  of  business ;  the  streets  upon  the  hill,  a  city  of 
residences ;  a  mile  or  two  back  is  the  old  town,  a  verita- 
ble life-like  picture  of  a  secluded  country  village  of  tho 


182 


TOWNS  AND  TREES, 


old  New  England  days.  What  could  one  want  better 
for  a  place  of  retirement  ?  An  hour's  ride  brings  you 
to  the  seaside :  to  boats,  fishing,  lounging  and  looking, 
whether  in  storm  or  calm.  You  may  go  by  cars  to  old 
New  London,  or  by  boat  to  Stonington,  arid  then  by 
yacht  or  other  craft  to  Block  Island,  or  anywhere  else 
you  please.  There  are  places  for  fish — black  fish,  blue 
fish,  speckled  bass,  porgies,  weak-fish,  etc.;  there  are 
places  for  surf-bathing,  with  waves  tempered  to  all 
degrees  of  violence,  and  to  every  tone  from  whispering 
to  thunder.  If  your  mood  does  not  take  you  seaward, 
half  an  hour  will  suffice  to  bear  you  inland,  among  bold 
and  rocky  hills,  cleft  with  streams,  full  of  precipitous 
ravines,  and  shaded  with  oaks  and  evergreens.  Or,  if 
you  do  not  wish  to  roam,  you  may  ascend  the  intra- 
urban mountain — the  Tarpeian  Eock  of  Norwich,  or  its 
Mount  Zion,  whichever  your  associations  prefer  to  call 
it — and  from  its  pinnacles  overlook  the  wide  circum- 
jacent country.  If  you  happily  own  a  house  upon  the 
western  side  of  Washington  street, — or,  better  yet,  if  you 
own  a  friend,  who  owns  the  house,  and  feels  lonesome 
without  you, — then  you  can  have  the  joys  of  the  breezy 
wilderness  at  home.  For,  if  you  will  go  back  through 
the  garden,  and  then  through  a  little  pet  orchard,  you 
shall  find  the  forest-covered  bank  plunging  two  or  three 
hundred  feet  down  toward  the  Yantic;  and  there,  hidden 
among  shrubs  and  wild  flowers,  oaks  and  elms,  you  hear 
no  din  of  wheels  or  clink  of  shops,  but  only  the  waving 
of  leaves  and  the  sport  of  birds. 

But  if  there  were  none  of  these  rare  conjunctions 


TOWNS  AND  TREES.  133 

of  hill,  rock,  and  plain,  river  and  sea,  Norwich,  would 
still  be  a  beautiful  place  by  virtue  of  its  trees,  and 
especially  of  those  incomparably  most  magnificent  of  all 
,earthly  trees,  elms !  A  village  shaded  by  thoroughly 
grown  elms  can  not  but  be  handsome.  Its  houses  may 
be  huts;  its  streets  may  be  ribbed  with  rocks,  or  chan- 
neled with  ruts ;  it  may  be  as  dirty  as  New  York,  and  as 
frigid  as  Philadelphia;  and  yet  these  vast,  majestic  taber- 
nacles of  the  air  would  redeem  it  to  beauty.  These  are 
temples  indeed,  living  temples,  neither  waxing  old  nor 
shattered  by  Time,  that  cracks  and  shatters  stone,  but 
rooting  wider  with  every  generation  and  casting  a  vaster 
round  of  grateful  shadow  with  every  summer;  "We  had 
rather  walk  beneath  an  avenue  of  elms  than  inspect  the 
noblest  cathedral  that  art  ever  accomplished.  What  is  it 
that  brings  one  into  such  immediate  personal  and  exhila- 
rating sympathy  with  venerable  trees !  One  instinctively 
uncovers  as  he  comes  beneath  them ;  he  looks  up  with 
proud  veneration  into  the  receding  and  twilight  recesses ; 
he  breathes  a  thanksgiving  to  God  every  time  his  cool 
foot  falls  along  their  shadows.  They  waken  the  imagi- 
nation and  mingle  the  olden  time  with  the  present. 
Did  any  man  of  contemplative  mood  ever  stand  under 
an  old  oak  or  elm,  without  thinking  of  other  days,— 
imagining  the  scenes  that  had  transpired  in  their  pres- 
ence ?  These  leaf-mountains  seem  to  connect  the  past 
and  the  present  to  us  as  mountain  ridges  attract  clouds 
from  both  sides  of  themselves.  Norwich  is  remarkably 
enriched  by  these  columnar  glories,  these  mysterious 
domes  of  leaf  and  interlacing  bough.    No  consider- 


134 


TOWNS  AND  TREES. 


able  street  is  destitute  of  them,  and  several  streets 
are  prolonged  avenues  of  elms  which  might  give  a 
twinge  of  jealousy  to  old  New  Haven  herself — elm- 
famous  !  Norwich  Old  Town,  however,  clearly  has  the 
pre-eminence.  Its  green  is  surrounded  by  old  Kevolu- 
tionary  elms  of  the  vastest  stature,  and  of  every  shape 
and  delineation  of  grandeur.  How  a  man  can  live  there 
and  ever  get  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  I  can  not  imagine. 
One  must  needs  walk  with  upturned  face,  exploring 
these  most  substantial  of  all  air  castles.  And  when 
pausing  underneath  some  monumental  tree,  he  looks 
afar  up,  and  sees  the  bird-population,  that  appear  scarcely 
larger  than  humming-birds,  dimly  flitting  about  their 
secure  heritage  and  sending  down  a  chirp  that  loses 
itself  half  way  down  to  a  thin  whistle,  it  seems  as 
though  there  were  two  worlds — he  in  one  and  they 
in  another.  Nearly  before  the  fine  old-fashioned  man- 
sion where  Lydia  Huntly  (Mrs.  Sigourney)  was  brought 
up  are  two  gigantic  elms — very  patriarchs,  measuring 
at  the  base  more  than  eighteen  feet  in  circumference. 
An  old  man  of  a  hundred  years,  a  member  of  Dr. 
Bond's  society,  relates  that  his  father  selected  these 
trees  from  the  forest,  and  backed  them  into  town  and 
planted  them  here.  His  name  should  be  written  on 
a  tablet  and  hung  upon  their  breasts !  The  two  elms 
next  south  from  these,  though  not  as  aged  as  they,  may, 
we  think,  be  regarded  as  models  of  exquisite  symmetry 
and  beauty.  One  might  sit  by  the  hour  and  look  upon 
them  as  upon  a  picture. 

No  other  tree  is  at  all  comparable  to  the  elm.  The 


TOWN'S  AND  TREES 


135 


.ash  is,  when  well  grown,  a  fine  tree,  but  clumpy;  the 
mapls  has  the  same  character.  The  horse-chestnut,  the 
linden,  the  mulberry,  and  poplars,  (save  that  tree-spire, 
the  Lombardy  poplar,)  are  all  of  them  plump,  round, 
fat  trees,  not  to  be  despised,  surely,  but  representing 
single  dendrological  ideas.  The  oak  is  venerable  by 
association,  and  occasionally  a  specimen  is  found  pos- 
sessing a  kind  of  grim  and  ragged  glory.  But  the  elm, 
alone  monarch  of  trees,  combines  in  itself  the  elements 
of  variety,  size,  strength,  and  grace,  such  as  no  other 
tree  known  to  us  can  at  all  approach  or  remotely  rival. 
It  is  the  ideal  of  trees;  the  true  Absolute  Tree!  It? 
main  trunk  shoots  up,  not  round  and  smooth,  like  an 
over-fatted,  lymphatic  tree,  but  channeled  and  corru- 
gated, as  if  its  athletic  muscles  showed  their  proportions 
through  the  bark,  like  Hercules*  limbs  through  his 
tunic.  Then  suddenly  the  whole  idea  of  growth  is 
changed,  and  multitudes  of  long,  lithe  branches  radiate 
from  the  crotch  of  the  tree,  having  the  effect  of  straight 
ness  and  strength,  yet  really  diverging  and  curving, 
until  the  outermost  portions  droop  over  and  give  to  the 
whole  top  the  most  faultless  grace.  If  one  should  at 
first  say  that  the  elm  suggested  ideas  of  strength  and 
uprightness,  on  looking  again  he  would  correct  him- 
self, and  say  that  it  was  majestic,  uplifting  beauty  that 
it  chiefly  represented.  But  if  he  first  had  said  that  it 
was  graceful  and  magnificent  beauty,  on  a  second  look 
he  would  correct  himself,  and  say  that  it  was  vast  and 
rugged  strength  that  it  set  forth.  But  at  length  he 
would  say  neither ;  he  would  say  both ;  he  would  say 


136 


TOWNS  AND  TREES, 


that  it  expressed  a  beauty  of  majestic  strength,  and  a 
grandeur  of  graceful  beauty.  « 

Such  domestic  forest  treasures  are  a  legacy  which  but 
few  places  can  boast*.  Wealth  can  build  houses,  and 
smooth  the  soil ;  it  can  fill  up  marshes,  and  create  lakes 
or  artificial  rivers ;  it  can  gather  statues  and  paintings ; 
but  no  wealth  can  buy  or  build  elm  trees — the  floral 
glory  of  New  England.  Time  is  the  only  architect  of 
such  structures ;  and  blessed  are  they  for  whom  Time 
was  pleased  to  fore-think !  No  care  or  expense  should 
be  counted  too  much  to  maintain  the  venerable  elms  of 
New  England  in  all  their  regal  glory !  No  other  tree 
more  enjoys  a  rich  loam  and  moist  food.  In  summer 
droughts,  if  copious  waterings  were  given  to  the  finer 
elms,  especially  with  diluted  guano  water,  their  pomp 
would  be  noticeably  enhanced.  But,  except  in  moist 
places,  or  in  fields  where  the  plow  has  kept  the  surface 
stirred,  we  noticed  that  elms  were  turning  yellow,  and 
thinning  out  their  leaves. 


YI. 


THE  FIRST  BREATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Salwbuby,  Conn.,  August,  1853. 

Once  more  we  find  ourselves  at  home  among  lucid 
green  trees,  among  hills  and  mountains,  with  lakes  and 
brooks  on  every  side,  and  country  roads  threading  their 
way  in  curious  circuits  among  them.  All  day  long  we 
have  moved  about  with  dreamy  newness  of  life.  Birds, 
crickets,  and  grasshoppers,  are  the  only  players  upon 
instruments  that  molest  the  air.  Chanticleer  is  at  this 
instant  proclaiming  over  the  whole  valley  that  the 
above  declaration  is  a  slander  on  his  musical  gifts. 
Very  wellvadd  chanticleer  to  cricket,  grasshopper,  and 
bird.  Add,  also,  a  cow;  for  I  hear  her  distant  low, 
melodious  through  the  valley,  with  all  roughness 
strained  out  by  the  trees  through  which  it  comes 
hitherward.  O,  this  silence  in  the  air,  this  silence  on 
the  mountains,  this  silence  on  the  lakes !  The  endless 
roll  of  wheels,  the  audible  pavements,  the  night  and 
♦  day  jar  of  city  streets,  gives  place  to  a  repose  so  full 
and  deep,  that,  by  a  five-hours'  ride,  one  is  born  into  a 
new  world.  Across  the  street  the  woods  begin;  the 
real  woods,  that  man  never  planted  nor  pruned,  and 
that  pride  and  avarice  have  saved  from  being  plucked 
away.  For,  the  property  adjacent  has  long  been 
wished  for  building  lots,  but  the  owner  has  that 
pride  of  land  which  leads  him  to  refuse  to  part 


138        THE  FIRST  BREATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

with  an  acre.  Thus  the  forest  stands,  which,  otherwise, 
would  long  before  this  have  given  way  to  yards  and 
gardens.  And  there  we  stroll ;  or  lie  down  upon  the 
dethroned  leaves  that  have  had  their  day,  and  look  up 
upon  the  reigning  leaves,  endless  and  multitudinous, 
that  wink  and  quiver  to  every  breeze,  or  idly  spot  the 
blue  sky  when  the  wind  hushes.  It  is  no  ordinary 
forest.  It  covers  some  thirty  or  forty  acres.  The  lower 
part  is  quite  level,  and  covered  with  oaks.  Then 
come  sudden  and  very  severe  hills,  bolted  up  so  per- 
pendicularly that,  but  for  grooves  and  water-cut  pas 
sages,  not  more  than  five  or  six  yards  wide,  you  could 
hardly  climb  them.  Masses  of  granite  rock  are  flung 
up  here  and  there  in  vast  heaps,  their  sides  mossed 
over,  the  splits  and  rifts  feathered  out  with  ferns,  with 
here  and  there  a  bush  for  a  captain.  Over  behind  the 
woods,  there  comes  down  a  brook  from  the  mountains, 
rushing  like  a  courier  fierce  with  news,  which  it  quite 
forgets  to  tell,  and  tempering  its  zeal  along  a  level 
meadow,  it  goes  across  the  road  bent  on  industry.  A 
few  miles  below  it  works  at  a  mill  as  steadily  as  if  it 
were  not  a  wild  and  mountain-born  brook.  The  woods 
are  full  of  hemlock,  pine,  and  spruce;  of  laurel  and 
ground-pine  ;  of  all  manner  of  leaves  and  flowers ;  and 
not  least  for  beauty,  the  finely-cut  ferns,  with  delicate 
palms.  All  this,  and  a  good  deal  more,  for  we  have 
not  spoken  of  a  diamond  spring  under  a  rock,  like  an 
eye  overhung  by  a  shaggy  brow,  or  of  a  pretty  school - 
house  on  the  road-edge  of  the  wood,  or  of  a  huge  rock 
balanced  so  as  to  seem  falling,  while  yet  it  is  firm : — 


THE  FIRST  BREATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY.  139 

all  this  we  have  within  a  stone's  throw  of  our  dwelling, 
and  it  is  just  nothing  to  the  abundance  of  attractions  in 
the  neighborhood. 

The  early  morning,  and  the  two  hours  before  sunset, 
we  give  to  riding  and  gazing.  The  middle  of  the  day 
is  given  to  keeping  still.  To  those  who  have  lived  in 
intense  excitements,  there  is  something  exquisitely 
enjoyable  in  mere  quiet.  Simple  village  sights,  and 
village  sounds,  bring  with  them  full-measured  pleasure. 
Hours  pass  lightly  away  while  you  sit  at  your  window, 
looking  at  everything  and  at  nothing, — a  passive  reci- 
pient of  all  the  impressions  which  the  great  out-of-doors 
can  make  upon  you.  Let  me  recount  a  half-hour's 
sights. 

It  is  a  very  beautiful  day.  The  sun  is  warm  but  the 
air  is  cool.  Some  very  dreamy  clouds  are  drifting 
about  without  any  will  of  their  own,  and  with  no  settled 
purpose.  Now  and  then  they  half  obliterate  the  sun, 
and  make  us  look  up  from  our  book  to  see  what  is  the 
matter.  In  a  minute  they  bring  him  back  again  with  a 
sudden  dash  of  light,  as  if  his  eye  flashed  at  the  indig- 
nity of  a  vail.  In  the  garden,  under  my  window, 
crickets  chirp  and  chirp,  so  long  and  steadily,  that 
chirping  seems  to  be  the  most  of  their  housekeeping. 
A  puff  of  air  lifts  the  broad  maple  leaves,  and  shakes 
out  a  murmurous  noise  from  them,  and  then  flies  off, 
leaving  them  motionless  and  silent.  The  far  mountains 
seem  wrapt  in  a  Sabbath.  The  near  hills  are  green 
beyond  all  greenness  of  any  summers  save  such  as  this, 
that  has  had  a  shower  for  every  week,  and  for  almost 


140        THE  FIRST  BREATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

every  day.  The  fountains  are  full,  the  rills  are  brooks, 
the  brooks  are  streams,  the  streams  rivers. 

What  does  a  man  think  of  in  one  of  these  mid-day 
summer  hours?  He  reads  a  little,  but  is  easily  in- 
veigled by  the  first  side  suggestion,  and  is  flying  off 
in  every  capricious  fantasy.  In  full  chase,  through  the 
door-yard,  three  children-boys  are  vociferous.  In  the 
next  yard  a  young  man  lies  flat  on  the  grass  under  the 
tree.  In  front  of  the  store  stands  an  always-laughing 
or  whistling  colored  man;  just  now  he  is  cracking 
nuts  with  his  teeth.  Somebody  casts  a  jest  at  him 
from  out  the  store,  and  he  laughs  the  whole  air  full. 
Now  he  is  making  all  the  motions  of  a  fiddler ;  now  he 
is  drumming  on  his  chair,  and  now  he  starts  off  whis- 
tling homeward  for  his  dinner.  "  Well,  Mott,  whistling 
again — I  always  hear  you  whistling,  but  never  saw 
you  cry."  Stopping  the  shrill  tune,  and  sliding  into  the 
freest  and  cheeriest  laugh  that  ever  pulsated  in  the  air, 
he  answers,  "Why,  sir,  I  never  cried  in  my  life."  I 
believe  him.  Careless,  contented,  luxuriously  at  ease 
when  he  has  a  dollar  in  his  pocket,  willing  to  work 
when  that  is  gone,  he  is,  on  all  hands,  admitted  to  be 
the  happiest  man  in  town. 

There  goes  the  blacksmith — a  jolly  fellow.  Hard 
work  makes  him  fat.  I  do  not  know  about  the  hard 
work — but  the  flesh  is  obvious.  I  can  hear  the  anvil 
ring,  and  the  hammer  clink — so,  his  journeyman  is  at 
work.  Here  passes  a  new  carriage.  Somebody  has 
come  to  town.  I  wonder  who  it  is.  The  neighbors 
wonder  who  it  is.    It  rolls  through  the  town,  and 


THE  FIRST  BREATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY.  141 

leaves  nothing  behind  but  a  cloud  of  dust  and  much 
curiosity. 

There  -troop  j:he  three  most  roguish  boys  that  ever 
made  parents  scold  and  laugh.  They  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  set  each  other  on  to  mischief.  They  pull  off 
buds  from  the  unblossomed  rose-bushes;  they  pick 
cucumbers  by  the  half-bushel  that  were  to  have  been 
let  alone ;  they  break  down  rare  shrubbery  to  get 
whips,  and  instead  get  whippings ;  they  kill  the  guinea- 
pigs  ;  chase  the  chickens ;  break  up  hen's  nests ;  get 
into  the  carriages  and  wagons  only  to  tumble  out,  and 
set  all  the  nurses  a-running ;  they  study  every  means  of 
getting  under  the  horses'  feet,  and,  as  the  more  danger- 
ous act,  they  are  fond  of  tickling  their  hind  legs,  and 
pulling  at  their  tails ;  they  fill  the  already  fed  horses 
with  extra  oats,  causing  the  hostler  to  fear  for  his 
charges'  health,  since  he  refuses  oats  at  the  next  regular 
feeding ;  they  paddle  in  all  the  mud  on  the  premises ;  sit 
down  in  the  street  and  fill  their  pockets  with  dirt ;  they 
wet  their  clothes  in  the  brook,  tear  them  in  the  woods, 
lose  their  caps  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  go  bare-headed 
in  the  blazing  sun ;  they  cut  up  every  imaginable  prank 
with  their  long-suffering  nurses  when  meals  are  served, 
or  when  bed-time  comes,  or  when  morning  brings  the 
washing  and  dressing.  They  are  little,  nimble,  compact 
skinfuls  of  ingenious,  fertile,  endless,  untiring  mischief. 
They  stub  their  toes,  or  cut  their  fingers,  or  get  stung, 
or  eat  some  poisonous  berry,  seed  or  root,  or  make  us 
think  that  they  have,  which  is  just  as  bad;  they  fall 
down  stairs,  or  eat  green  fruit  till  they  are  as  tight  as  a 


142         THE  FIEST  BEEATH  IN  THE  COUNTKY. 

drum ;  and  yet  there  is  no  peace  to  us  without  them,  as 
there  certainly  is  none  with  them.  Mischievous  darlings ! 
Joyful  plagues!    Loving,  rollicking,  laughing  rogues! 

Our  house  is  girded  about  on  the  west  with  vigorous 
maples.  No  shade-tree  is  cleaner  or  more  dense.  Its 
form  can  not  vie  with  the  elm.  It  is  round  and  heavy. 
Its  foliage  is  black-green.  The  leaves  are  quite  star- 
like. Few  are  the  places  through  which  the  now 
westward-going  sun  can  pierce.  But  through  one  or 
two  of  these  it  is  casting  on  my  paper  a  mottled 
radiance,  that,  as  the  leaves  move  to  the  breeze,  runs 
up  and  down  like  a  kitten  playing  with  my  pen.  There 
is  something  solemn  about  a  maple.  The  elm  is  airy, 
open,  dome-like.  Through  it  you  can  see  the  skies,  and 
for  this  reason,  as  well  as  from  its  arched  and  hanging 
boughs,  it  is  a  cheerful,  inspiring  and  companionable 
tree.  The  maple  is  opaque.  Therefore,  and  especially 
as  the  light  fades  at  evening,  it  stands  like  a  globe  of 
vegetable  darkness. 

However,  we  are  not  out  now  on  a  tree-errand ;  and 
all  these  remarks  are  thrown  in  accidentally  and  for 
nothing.  By  stage  we  will  take  you  with  us  to  see 
sights  worth  seeing;  you  shall  go  to  Bashe-Byshe,  to 
Mount  Prospect,  to  the  Dome,  to  Bald  Peak,  and  to 
Monument  Hill;  you  shall  stroll  along  the  valley  of 
the  Housatonic,  to  the  Falls  at  Canaan;  you  shall  go 
a-trouting  up  and  down  meadow  and  mountain  brooks, 
and  catch  perch  and  pickerel  in  the  twin  lakes,  Washinee 
and  Washining,  than  which  more  beautiful  can  not  be 
found  in  the  state. 


THE  FIRST  BREATH  IN  THE  COUNTRY.  143 

Here,  then,  for  a  few  weeks  we  shall  forget  the  city 
and  lay  aside  its  excitements,  and  bathe  with  a  perpetual 
lavation  in  the  bright,  cool  mountain  air. 

When  one  is  young,  and  not  yet  entered  on  life,  the 
heart  pants  for  new  things  and  for  excitements.  But 
after  one  has  taken  the  burden  upon  his  back,  and  lived 
amidst  cares  that  never  rest,  but  beat  upon  the  shore 
like  an  unquiet  surf,  then  nothing  is  so  luxurious  as  the 
calm  of  a  country  neighborhood. 

Nor  is  the  only  experience  that  of  pleasure.  There  is 
ample  space  for  retrospection,  a  mental  state  which  is 
almost  denied  to  public  men  in  the  life  of  a  city  No 
man  in  a  city  parish,  driven  by  new  demands  each  hour, 
has  leisure  to  go  a-gleaning  over  harvested  fields.  He 
must  plow  again,  sow  again,  reap  again.  But  now,  at 
this  distance,  and  separated  from  all  daily  solicitation, 
one  can  review  the  whole  year ;  and  if  done  with  any 
worthy  standard,  it  can  not  fail  to  furnish  food  for  the 
most  earnest  reflection,  and  for  the  most  solemn  resolu- 
tions for  the  future. 


• 


TROUTING. 

Where  shall  we  go  ?  Here  is  the  More  brook,  tho 
tipper  part  running  through,  bushy  and  wet  meadows, 
but  the  lower  part  flowing  transparently  over  the  . 
gravel,  through  the  pasture  grounds  near  the  edge  of 
the  village.  With  great  ingenuity,  it  curves  and  winds 
and  ties  itself  into  bow-knots.  It  sets  out  with  an  in- 
tention of  flowing  toward  the  south.  But  it  lingers  on 
its  errand  to  coquette  with  each  point  of  the  compass, 
and  changes  its  mind,  at  length,  just  in  time  to  rush 
eastward  into  the  Housatonic.  It  is  a  charming  brook 
to  catch  trout  in,  when  you  can  catch  them ;  but  they 
are  mostly  caught.  Nevertheless,  there  are  here  in 
Salisbury,  as  in  every  village,  those  mysterious  men  who 
are  in  league  with  fish,  and  can  catch  them  by  scores 
when  no  one  else  can  get  a  nibble.  It  is  peculiarly 
satisfactory  to  one's  feelings  to  have  waded,  watched, 
and  fished  with  worm,  grasshopper,  and  fly,  for  half  a 
day,  for  one  poor  feeble  little  trout,  and  four  dace,  and 
at  evening  to  fall  in  with  a  merry  negro,  who  informs 
you,  with  a  concealed  mirth  in  his  eye,  and  a  most 
patronizing  kindness,  that  he  has  been  to  the  same 
brook,  and  has  caught  three  dozen  trout,  several  of  them 
weighing  half-a-pound !  We  will  not  try  that  stream 
to-day. 


TROUTING.  145 

Well,  there  is  the  Candy  brook.  We  will  look  at 
that.  A  man  might  walk  through  the  meadows  and 
not  suspect  its  existence,  unless  through  the  grass  he 
first  stepped  into  it  J  The  grass  meets  over  the  top  of 
it,  and  quite  hides  it  through  the  first  meadow;  aud 
below,  through  that  iron-tinctured  marsh  land,  it  ex- 
pands only  a  little,  growing  open-hearted  by  degrees 
across  a  narrow  field  ;  and  then  it  runs  for  the  thickets 
— and  he  that  takes  fish  among  those  alders  will  cer- 
tainly earn  them.  Yet,  for  its  length,  it  is  not  a  bad 
brook.  The  trout  are  not  numerous,  nor  large,  nor 
especially  fine ;  but  every  one  you  catch  renews  your 
surprise  that  you  should  catch  any  in  such  a  ribbon  of 
a  brook. 

It  is  the  upper  part  of  the  brook  that  is  most  remark- 
able, where  it  flows  through  mowing  meadows,  a  mere 
slit,  scarcely  a  foot  wide,  and  so  shut  in  by  grass,  that 
at  two  steps'  distance  you  can  not  tell  where  it  flows, 
though  your  ear  hears  the  low  sweet  gurgle  of  its  waters 
down  some  pet  waterfall.  Who  ever  dreamed  of  fishing 
in  the  grass  ?  Yet,  as  you  cautiously  spy  out  an  open- 
ing between  the  red-top  and  foxtail,  to  let  your  hook 
through,  you  seem  to  yourself  very  much  like  a  man 
fishing  in  an  orchard.  One  would  almost  as  soon  think 
of  casting  his  line  into  a  hay-mow,  or  of  trying  for  a  fish 
behind  winrows  or  haycocks  in  a  meadow!  Yet,  if 
the  wind  is  only  still,  so  that  the  line  shall  hang  plumb 
down,  we  can,  by  some  dexterity,  drop  the  bait  between 
grass,  leaves,  and  spikes  of  aquatic  flowers.    No  sooner 


146 


TR0UTING. 


docs  it  touch  the  invisible  water  than  the  line  cuts  open 
the  grass  and  rushes  through  weeds,  borne  off  by  your 
speckled  victim. 

Still  further  north  is  another  stream,  something  larger, 
and  much  better  or  worse  according  to  your  luck.  It 
is  easy  of  access,  and  quite  unpretending.  There  is  a 
bit  of  a  pond,  some  twenty  feet  in  diameter,  from  which 
it  flows ;  and  in  that  there  are  five  or  six  half-pound 
trout  who  seem  to  have  retired  from  active  life  and 
given  themselves  to  meditation  in  this  liquid  convent. 
They  were  very  tempting,  but  quite  untemptable.  Stand- 
ing afar  off,  we  selected  an  irresistible  fly,  and  with  long 
line  we  sent  it  pat  into  the  very  place.  It  fell  like  a 
snow-flake.  No  trout  should  have  hesitated  a  moment. 
The  morsel  was  delicious.  The  nimblest  of  them  should 
have  flashed  through  the  water,  broke  the  surface,  and 
with  a  graceful  but  decisive  curve  plunged  downward, 
carrying  the  insect  with  him.  Then  we  should,  in  our 
turn,  very  cheerfully,  lend  him  a  hand,  relieve  him  of 
his  prey,  and,  admiring  his  beauty,  but  pitying  his 
untimely  fate,  bury  him  in  the  basket.  But  he  wished 
no  translation.  We  cast  our  fly  again  and  again ;  we 
drew  it  hither  and  thither;  Ave  made  it  skip  and  wriggle ; 
we  let  it  fall  plash  like  a  blundering  bug  or  fluttering 
moth;  and  our  placid  spectators  calmly  beheld  our 
feats,  as  if  all  this  skill  was  a  mere  exercise  for  their 
amusement,  and  their  whole  duty  consisted  in  looking 
on  and  preserving  order. 

Next,  we  tried  ground-bait,  and  sent  our  vermicular 
hook  down  to  their  very  sides.   With  judicious  gravity 


TEOUTING. 


147 


they  parted,  and  slowly  sailed  toward  tlie  root  of  an  eld 
tree  on  the  side  of  the  pool.  Again,  changing  place, 
we  will  make  an  ambassador  of  a  grasshopper.  Laying 
down  our  rod,  we  prepare  to  catch  the  grasshopper.  That 
is  in  itself  no  slight  feat.  At  the  first  step  you  take,  at 
*  least  forty  bolt  out  and  tumble  headlong  into  the  grass ; 
some  cling  to  the  stems,  some  are  creeping  under  the 
leaves,  and  not  one  seems  to  be  within  reach.  You  step 
again;  another  flight  takes  place,  and  you  eye  them 
with  fierce  penetration,  as  if  thereby  you  could  catch 
some  one  of  them  with  your  eye.  You  can  not,  though. 
You  brush  the  grass  with  your  foot  again.  Another 
hundred  snap  out,  and  tumble  about  in  every  direction. 
There  are  large  ones  and  small  ones,  and  middling- 
sized  ones ;  there  are  gray  and  hard  old  fellows ;  yellow 
and  red  ones ;  green  and  striped  ones.  At  length  it  is 
wonderful  to  see  how  populous  the  grass  is.  If  you  did 
not  want  them,  they  would  jump  into  your  very  hand. 
But  they  know  by  your  looks  that  you  are  out  a-fishing. 
You  see  a  very  nice  young  fellow  climbMg  up  a  steeple 
stem,  to  get  a  good  look-out  and  see  where  you  are. 
You  take  good  aim  and  grab  at  him.  The  stem  you 
catch,  but  he  has  jumped  a  safe  rod.  Yonder  is  anothel 
creeping  among  some  delicate  ferns.  With  broad  palm 
you  clutch  him  and  all  the  neighboring  herbage  too. 
Stealthily  opening  your  little  finger,  you  see  his  leg ; 
the  next  finger  reveals  more  of  him ;  and  opening  the 
next  you  are  just  beginning  to  take  him  out  with  the 
other  hand,  when,  out  he  bounds  and  leaves  you  to 
renew  your  entomological  pursuits!    Twice  you  snatch 


148  TROUTING. 

handfuls  of  grass  and  cautiously  open  your  palm  to  find 
that  you  have  only  grass.  It  is  quite  vexatious.  There 
are  thousands  of  them  here  and  there,  climbing  and 
wriggling  on  that  blade,  leaping  off  from  that  stalk,  twist- 
ing and  kicking  on  that  vertical  spieler's  web,  jumping 
and  bouncing  about  under  your  very  nose,  hitting  you  * 
in  your  face,  creeping  on  your  shoes,  or  turning  summer- 
sets and  tracing  every  figure  of  parabola  or  ellipse  in 
the  air,  and  yet  not  one  do  you  get.  And  there  is  such 
a  heartiness  and  merriment  in  their  sallies !  They  are 
pert  and  gay,  and  do  not  take  your  intrusion  in  the  least 
dudgeon.  If  any  tender-hearted  person  ever  wondered 
how  a  humane  man  could  bring  himself  to  such  a 
cruelty  as  the  impaling  of  an  insect,  let  him  hunt  for  a 
grasshopper  in  a  hot  day  among  tall  grass ;  and  when 
at  length  he  secures  one,  the  affixing  him  upon  the 
hook  will  be  done  without  a  single  scruple,  with  judicial 
solemnity,  and  as  a  mere  matter  of  penal  justice. 

Now  then  the  trout  are  yonder.  We  swing  our  line 
to  the  air,  and*  give  it  a  gentle  cast  toward  the  desired 
spot,  and  a  puff  of  south  wind  dexterously  lodges  it  in 
the  branch  of  the  tree.  You  plainly  see  it  strike,  and 
whirl  over  and  over,  so  that  no  gentle  pull  will  loosen 
it.  You  draw  it  north  and  south,  east  and  west ;  you 
give  it  a  jerk  up  and  a  pull  down ;  you  try  a  series  of 
nimble  twitches ;  in  vain  you  coax  it  in  this  way  and 
solicit  it  in  that.  Then  you  stop  and  look  a  moment, 
first  at  the  trout  and  then  at  your  line.  Was  there 
ever  anything  so  vexatious?  Would  it  be  wrong  to  get 
angry  ?    In  fact  you  feel  very  much  like  it.    The  very 


TR0UT1NG.  149 

things  you  wanted  to  catch,  the  grasshopper  and  the 
trout,  you  could  not;  but  a  tree,  that  you  did  not  in 
the  least  want,  you  have  caught  fast  at  the  first  throw. 
You  fear  that  the  trout  will  be  scared.  You  cautiously 
draw  nigh  and  peep  down.  Yes,  there  they  are,  looking 
at  you  and  laughing  as  sure  as  ever  trout  laughed ! 
They  understand  the  whole  thing.  With  a  very  decisive 
jeik  you  snap  your  line,  regain  the  remnant  of  it,  and 
sit  down  to  repair  it,  to  put  on  another  hook,  you  rise 
up  to  catch  another  grasshopper,  and  move  on  down 
the  stream  to  catch  a  trout ! 

Meantime,  the  sun  is  wheeling  behind  the  mountains, 
for  you  are  just  at  the  foot  of  the  eastern  ridge  of 
Mount  Washington  (not  of  the  White  Mountains,  but 
of  the  Taconic  range  in  Connecticut).  Already  its 
broad  shade  begins  to  fall  down  upon  the  plain.  The 
•  side  of  the  mountain  is  solemn  and  sad.  Its  ridge 
stands  sharp  against  a  fire-bright  horizon.  Here  and 
there  a  tree  -has  escaped  the  axe  of  the  charcoal ers,  and 
shaggily  marks  the  sky.  Through  tile  heavens  are 
slowly  sailing  continents  of  magnificent  fleece  moun- 
tains— Alps  and  Andes  of  vapor.  They,  too,  have 
their  broad  shadows.  Upon  yonder  hill,  far  to  the  east 
of  us,  you  see  a  cloud-shadow  making  gray  the  top, 
while  the  base  is  radiant  with  the  sun.  Another  cloud- 
shadow  is  moving  with  stately  grandeur  along  the 
valley  of  the  Housatonic ;  and,  if  you  rise  to  a  little 
eminence,  you  may  see  the  brilliant  landscape  growing 
dull  in  the  sudden  obscuration  on  its  forward  line,  and 
growing  as  suddenly  bright  upon  its  rear  trace.  How 


150 


TROUTING. 


majestically  that  shadow  travels  up  those  steep  and 
precipitous  mountain  sides  !  How  it  scoops  down  the 
gorge  and  valley  and  moves  along  the  plain ! 

But  now  the  mountain-shadow  on  the  west  is  creep- 
ing down  into  the  meadow.  It  has  crossed  the  road 
where  your  horse  stands  hitched  to  the  paling  of  a 
deserted  little  house. 

You  forget  your  errand.  You  select  a  dry  tufty 
knoll,  and  lying  down  you  gaze  up  into  the  sky. 
0  !  those  depths.  Something  within  you  reaches  out 
and  yearns ;  you  have  a  vague  sense  of  infinity — of 
vastness — of  the  littleness  of  human  life,  and  the  sweet- 
ness and  grandeur  of  divine  life  and  of  eternity.  You 
people  that  vast  ether.  You  stretch  away  through  it 
and  find  that  celestial  city  beyond,  and  therein  dwell 
O  how  many  that  are  yours !  Tears  come  unbidden. 
You  begin  to  long  for  release.  You  pray.  Was  there 
ever  a  better  closet  ?  Under  the  shadow  of  the  moun- 
tain, the  heavens  full  of  cloudy  cohorts,  like  armies  of 
horsemen  and  Chariots,  your  soul  is  loosened  from  the 
narrow  judgments  of  human  life,  and  touched  with  a 
fall  sense  of  immortality  and  the  liberty  of  a  spiritual 
state.  An  hour  goes  past.  How  full  has  it  been  of 
feelings  struggling  to  be  thoughts,  and  of  thoughts  deli- 
quescing into  feeling.  Twilight  is  coming.  You  have 
miles  to  ride  home.  Not  a  trout  in  your  basket ! 
Never  mind,  you  have  fished  in  the  heavens,  and 
taken  great  store  of  prey.  Let  them  laugh  at  your 
empty  basket.  Take  their  raillery  good-naturedly; 
you  have  certainly  had  good  luck. 


TROUTING.  151 

"But  we  have  not  yet  gone  to  the  brook  for  which  we 
started.  That  must  be  for  another  tramp.  Perhaps 
one's  experience  of  "  fancy  tackle"  and  of  fly-fishing  might 
not  be  without  some  profit  in  moral  analogies ;  perhaps 
a  mountain  stream  and  good  luck  in  real  trout  may 
afford  some  easy  side-thoughts  not  altogether  unprofit- 
able for  a  summer  vacation.  At  any  rate  it  will  make 
it  plain  that  oftentimes  the  best  part  of  trout-fishing  is 
not  the  fishing. 


VIII 


A  RIDE. 

Come,  if  you  are  a-going  to-day,  it's  high  time  you 
were  off.  It's  four  miles  to  the  mountain  road,  and 
then  a  stiff  pull  up  the  hills.  Is  the  lunch  in  the  bas- 
ket ?  Have  you  got  all  your  rig  ?  Well,  good  morn- 
ing all !  And  here  we  are  under  way.  The  sky  is 
full  of  slowly-opening,*  rolling,  evasive  fleece-clouds, 
that  never  do  what  you  think  they  are  a-going  to,  and 
always  develop  with  unexpected  shapes  and  effects. 
So  you  get  and  lose  the  sunshine  by  turns,  and  go 
along  a  checkered  road  just  under  the  Taconic  range. 
First  you  have  on  your  right  the  swampy  meadows, 
full  of  rank  grasses,  clumps  of  alders.  Here  and  there 
little  arboral  villages  of  hemlock,  a  fringe  of  bushes 
and  trees  wind  circuitously  through  the  four-mile 
stretch,  having  in  charge  a  brook,  whose  fair  face  the 
sun  is  not  to  gaze  at  too  broadly,  but  only  in  golden 
glances,  softened  and  tempered  to  mildness  by  the  leafy 
bath  of  lucid  green  through  which  it  passes. 

Birds  are  busy  as  you  ride  along,  and  they  have 
an  intuitive  knowledge  that  you  are  not  to  disturb 
them.  They  scarcely  rise  from  the  bush.  Black- 
winged  yellow-birds  are  harvesting  the  thistle-tops; 
king-birds,  perched  upon  the  corner  stakes  of  the 
rail  fence,  wait  till  you  are  fairly  up  to  them,  and 
then  with  a  fling  and  a  measured  circuit,  they  alight 


A  RIDE. 


158 


upon  another  stake  four  or  five  panels  ahead.  Crows, 
briskly  flying  through  the  air,  are  too  intent  for  break- 
fast to  spend  time  in  cawing.  Now  and  then,  a  king- 
bird  makes  a  dash  at  them,  and  drives  them  up  or 
down  with  unwonted  nimbleness.  Striped  squirrels 
run  along  the  fence,  their  pouches  protuberant  with 
prudent  stores.  The  grasses  and  leaves,  as  you  look 
aslant  upon  them,  glitter  with  dewdrops;  and  all  about 
you  those  nocturnal  architects,  spiders,  have  spread  forth 
their  crystal  palaces,  which  glitter  and  quiver  along 
every  thread  with  jewel-drops. 

This  is  called  the  under-mountain  road.  You  would 
know  why  if  you  were  on  it.  The  mountains  are  not 
of  the  giant  species,  but  they  are  much  too  large  for 
hills.  They  range  along  on  the  west  side  of  the  Hou- 
satonic  valley  about  twelve  or  fifteen  miles.  Their 
sides  are  not  perpendicular  except  in  two  or  three 
places.  They  slope  toward  you  with  almost  every 
possible  variation,  giving  your  eye  many  and  diverse 
pathways  to  the  summit,  up  through^  gorges,  ravines, 
and  almost  valleys.  You  of  course  know  that  moun- 
tains, which  have  the  firmest  features  and  the  most 
fixed  forms  of  nature,  are  yet  of  a  more  variable  ex- 
pression than  any  thing  in  the  world  except  the  ocean 
and  the  air.  Lakes,  trees,  meadows,  and  men,  have 
moods  and  changeable  expressions;  but  mountains, 
beyond  all  other  natural  objects,  are  subject  to  moods. 
Every  change  of  temperature,  every  change  of  hour 
throughout  the  day,  every  change  of  cloud  or  sun,  is 

reflected  upon  the  mountains.     They  are  the  grand 
7* 


154 


A  EIDE. 


expositors  of  the  atmosphere.  Sometimes  tliey  stand 
in  dreamy  mood,  hazy,  indistinct,  absent-minded.  All 
inequalities  seem  effaced.  The  lines  of  depression  or 
the  bulges  of  rock  are  lost,  and  they  lie  in  airy  tran- 
quillity, as  if  God  had  sloped  them  from  base  to 
summit  with  an  even  line.  Perhaps  the  next  morning 
all  reserve  is  gone.  They  have  traveled  up  toward 
you.  They  seem  close  at  hand.  Every  line  is  sharp, 
and  there  is  no  longer  any  dreamy  expression,  but  one 
of  earnest  out-looking.  They  gaze  down  on  you. 
There  is  a  dark,  solemn*  positive  expression,  as  if  they 
had  come  to  judgment  with  you.  Mountains  are  the 
favorite  grounds  for  shadows.  They  lie  patiently  still 
while  clouds  amuse  themselves  with  painting  every 
possible  form  and  shape  upon  their  huge  sides;  and 
they  even  choose  to  make  their  own  shadows  rather 
than  to  have  none.  A  mountain-shadow,  when  the  sun 
is  in  the  west — a  somber  sheet  of  transparent  darkness, 
cast  loosely  and  mysteriously  down  from  cliff  to  base — 
is  a  very  witch  -v^Mi  the  imagination.  One's  thoughts 
play  with  it,  rushing  in  and  out,  as  we  have  seen 
swallows  at  Niagara  dashing  in  and  out  of  the  thunder- 
mists  of  the  Horse-shoe  Falls. 

But  no  effects  are  finer  than  those  which  sometimes 
are  seen  at  or  near  sunset,  when  the  heavens  are  full  of 
white-gray  and  blue-gray  clouds.  The  light  which 
reveals  them  is  entirely  reflected  down  from  the  clouds, 
and  from  different  strata  and  with  different  intensities. 
It  is  of  all  other  light  that  which  gives  the  utmost  dis- 
tinctness in  contrast  with  the  most  perfect  obscurity. 


A  RIDE 


155 


The  nearest  point  to  you  will  be  black  with  purple 
darkness,  and  swell  up  into  an  unfamiliar  grandeur  which 
effaces  all  your  former  knowledge  of  it.  Whether  the 
mountain  is  a  cloud  or  the  cloud  a  mountain ;  whether 
there  is  a  change  going  on,  and  the  rocky  top  is  melting 
away  and  mistily  exhaling,  or  the  mists  are  condensing 
and  hardening  into  rock,  you  can  not  tell.  But  right  out 
against  this  Obscure  stands  another  section,  so  astonish- 
ingly revealed  that  you  can  trace  its  anatomy  almost  to 
the  minutest  line.  Every  swel]  or  scoop,  all  the  ribs  and 
bones,  the  petty  ridges  and  hollows,  the  whole  wavy 
surface  of  the  four-mile  slope,  is  as  distinct  as  the 
wrinkles  on  your  own  hand.  Between  these  extremes 
is  every  possible  gradation.  Never  long  alike  in  any 
feature,  but  changing  with  the  ever-changing  cloud, 
you  can  not  but  feel  that  there  is  some  mysterious 
connection  between  cloud-mountains  and  earthy  rock- 
mountains.  Those  airy  hills,  are  they  the  spirit-forms 
which  come  into  visible  communion  with  their  yet 
earth-bound  brethren?  Do  these  things  symbol  forth 
the  communion  of  spirits  disembodied  with  spirits 
embodied?  And  are  these  evanescent  hues,  these 
strange  effects  of  light,  these  systems  of  opal-shadows, 
analogous  to  all  those  openings  and  shuttings  of  heart, 
those  lights  and  darks  of  imagination,  which  come  upon 
us  in  the  experiences  of  life  ? 

We  are  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  It  is  well  that  we 
have  a  good  horse,  for  it  will  be  a  stiff  pull,  such  as 
would  appal  dainty  riders.  It  is  the  old  road  up  the 
mountain ;  and  is  now  principally  used  in  hauling  char- 


156 


A  RIDE. 


coal.  It  is  seldom  repaired,  and  in  many  places,  par 
ticularly  at  the  steepest  parts,  all  that  could  be  washed 
away  has  gone  long  ago,  leaving  nothing  but  ledges  of 
rock,  and  loose  round  stones,  from  the  size  of  a  hen's 
egg  upward,  indefinitely.  Now  we  come  to  the  first 
pitch.  Loose  the  check-rein,  and  give  the  horse  his  own 
way.  See  how  bravely  he  makes  at  the  hill,  quickening 
his  step,  and  breaking  into  a  series  of  jumps ;  the  wagon 
clatters  and  shakes,  and  bounds  hither  and  thither,  as 
if  it  were  a  great  horse-rattle !  There !  stop  and  breathe 
your  nag ;  pat  him  and  praise  him ;  he  understands  you 
perfectly,  and  enjoys  applause  just  as  much  as  if  he  had 
but  two  legs  instead  of  four. 

Do  you  notice  what  a  profusion  of  growth  there  is 
about  you,  and  what  a  fulness  of  health  and  perfection 
of  green  every  vegetable  has  ?  Perpetual  moisture,  and 
a  right  proportion  of  light  and  shade  give  here  the  best 
conditions  of  growth.  The  asters  are  beginning  to  fringe 
the  way.  Golden  rod,  one  of  the  most  regal  of  all  late 
summer  plants,  waves  its  plumy  head.  Its  little  arching 
boughs,  feathered  with  gold,  light  up  the  way-side, 
shine  along  the  fence  corners,  and  glow,  in  patches  all 
through  the  field;  it  follows  you  up  the  mountain- 
sides, glittering  along  the  edges  of  the  laurel-bush, 
splendidly  pictured  on  the  deep  green  and  varnished 
leaves.  A  young  leaf  of  the  laurel,  just  come  of  age, 
in  a  favorable  spot,  is  the  perfection  of  leaves ! 

However,  we  must  not  run  off  into  these  things. 
Come,  Charley,  away  with  you:  and  away  it  is,  suro 
enough ;  bounce,  clatter,  thwack,  up  here,  down  a  little 


A  RIDE.  157 

there,  over  tliis  side,  over  upon  that,  and  at  length,  at 
fall  jump,  up  another  pitch  steeper  than  the  last.  Now, 
while  he  breathes,  you  may  see  that  the  next  rise  is 
steeper  yet,  and  the  next  steeper  than  that;  and  if  you 
could  see  around  that  turn  of  the  road,  as  you  will  full 
soon  enough,  you  would  find  another  steeper  than 
all  of  them  put  together.  There  is  no  more  riding 
for  the  present.  We  must  take  it  afoot,  leaving  the 
horse  only  an  empty  wagon  to  draw.  For  little  silver- 
threaded  streams  are  coming  down  the  side  of  the  rocks 
at  every  few  rods ;  there  is  also  such  variety  and  beauty 
of  leaf,  and  withal,  such  a  hearty  smell  of  the  woods, 
that  writh  ♦occasional  peeps  at  the  distant  country  through 
forest  and  meadows,  you  find  enough  to  tempt  you  to 
leisurely  ascent ;  to  say  nothing  of  other  reasons  for  it 
which  your  feet  find  out. 

Now,  then,  we  have  come  to  the  turn,  right  up  to  the 
left.  Indeed,  it  is  right  up.  When  we  first  tried  this 
road  we  had  a  heavier  carriage  and  stopped  it  at  this 
point.  We  will  stop,  again,  but  not  for  the  same  reason. 
Do  you  hear  that  noise  ?  Yes !  a  storm  is  coming  up — 
or  is  it  the  wind  in  the  forest  trees  ?  It  is  neither ;  but 
the  sound  of  a  water-fall,  mellowed  to  a  deep,  grand 
murmur.  Fasten  the  horse,  and  let  us  turn  off  and  see 
it ;  it  is  but  a  few  moments'  walk,  but  is  worth  many 
hours  if  you  could  not  reach  it  sooner.  There  it  opens ! 
It  is  but  a  few  feet  wide ;  it  drops  a  hundred  feet  right 
over  the  mountain's  edge,  to  begin  with,  and  white  as 
snow ;  then  it  lovingly  embraces  an  insensible  rock,  and 
clashes  down  beyond  it  a  double  fall,  whiter  than  before, 


158 


A  RIDE. 


Emboldened  by  its  success,  it  now  commences  ever/ 
species  of  fantastic  caper  that  ever  entered  the  imagina- 
tion of  a  mountain  brook.  It  comes  together  and  then 
widens  over  that  shelving  rock,  rushing  down  into  a 
crj^stal  pool ;  then,  like  a  watery  hand,  at  the  exit  it 
divides  into  five  fingers,  each  sparkling  with  myriads 
of  diamonds.  The  alacrity  with  which  the  separated 
currents  make  haste  to  get  together  again  after  this  feat, 
is  amusing; — the  whirls,  the  side  quirks,  the  petty 
impetuosities,  the  splitting  and  uniting,,  the  plunging 
and  emerging,  until  the  distributed  waters  impool  them- 
selves once  more,  and  look  back  upon  you  with  a  grave 
and  a  placid  face,  as  if  they  asked  your  forgiveness  for  past 
levity,  and  your  pity  for  the  serious  experience  which 
now  awaits  them  below.  For  we  are  on  the  upper  brink 
of  another  series  of  long  down-plunges,  each  one  of 
which  wrould  be  enough  for  a  day's  study.  Below  these 
are  cascades  and  pools  in  which  the  water  whirls  friskily 
around  like  a  kitten  running  earnestly  after  its  tail. 
But  we  will  go  no  further  down.  These  are  the  moun- 
tain jewels ;  the  necklaces  which  it  loves  to  hang  down 
from  its  hoary  head  upon  its  rugged  bosom. 

Shall  we  take  out  our  tackle?  That  must  be  a  glorious 
pool  yonder  for  trout !  No,  my  friend,  do  not  desecrate 
such  a  scene  by  throwing  a  line  into  it  with  piscatory 
intent.  Leave  some  places  in  nature  to  their  beauty, 
unharassed,  for  the  mere  sake  of  their  beauty.  Nothing 
could  tempt  us  to  spend  an  hour  here  in  fishing; — all 
the  more  because  there  is  not  a  single  trout  in  the  whole 
brook.  Indeed,  this  is  an  extemporaneous  affair.  Come 


A  KIDE. 


159 


here  next  week  and  there  will  be  scarcely  a  drop  of 
water.  It  is  a  mere  piece  of  amusement  which  storms 
get  up  for  the  occasion.  After  heavy  rains  you  may 
find  it  worth  seeing,  never  else. 

Let  us  return.  Now,  well-rested  Charley,  let  us  put 
at  that  grand  ascent.  Nothing  loath,  he  canters  up  with 
such  right  good  will  that  we  must  run  too,  over  stones, 
up  this  bank,  down  that  gully,  bearing  to  the  right 
over  that  ledge,  close  up  to  the  left  from  that  gully, 
round  that  point ;  and,  yonder  is  the  top — not  of  the 
mountain,  but  of  our  journey.  Now  get  in,  and  we  will 
take  the  left  fork  of  the  road,  leaving  that  log  cabin, 
locked-up,  to  its  solitude,  that  stands  by  the  other  (and 
regular)  mountain  road.  We  now  wind  pleasantly 
round  the  side  of  the  mountain's  upper  cone,  having 
a  deep,  gorge-like  valley  on  our  left,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  roars  one  of  the  most  romantic  of  all  mountain 
streams — Sage's  Brook,  by  name.  Trotting  along  your 
leaf-covered  path,  turning  out,  as  best  you  may,  for  the 
heavy  charcoal  carts,  whose  home  you  have  invaded, 
we  will  stop  about  two  miles  up,  and  leaving  our  horse 
to  his  oats  in  a  rude  stable,  we  will  take  our  lunch,  and 
go  afoot  along  the  road,  till  it  crosses  the  upper  part  of 
Sage's  Brook.  Now  rig  out  your  rod.  Among  the 
bushes  on  the  right  see  that  stagnant  stretch  of  water. 
It  is  the  last  place  one  would  think  of  approaching  for 
trout.  Let  us  try.  Here  comes  one ;  there  is  another ; 
another,  and  another.  Well,  at  length  let  us  count — 
forty-two  as  sure  as  there  is  one — and  that  without 
moving  from  one  spot.    However,  a  little  below  this. 


I 


160  A  RIDE. 

a  clerical  friend,  of  this  vicinity,  took  eighty  trout  out 
of  one  pool !  To  be  sure  they  are  small,  but  they  are 
trout,  and  can  afford  to  be  small,  they  are  so  sweet  and 
hard  and  every  way  good.  Indeed,  while  we  are  up 
here  we  conceive  a  great  contempt  for  those  fat  pound 
trout  that  feed  in  meadow  brooks !  Who  would  wish 
them  that  could  have  mountain  trout?  We  always 
prefer  these  small  but  superb  fish — until  we  get  down 
to  the  meadows.  A  half-pound  trout,  at  the  end  of 
one's  line,  may  produce  a  change  in  his  mind. 

By  following  down  this  stream  till  it  begins  its  de- 
scent on  the  east  front  of  the  mouutain,  you  will  enter 
a  gorge,  called  Sage's  Eavine,  which,  if  you  love  soli- 
tude, wildness,  and  beauty,  will  be  worth  all  the  pains 
you  may  take  to  climb  through  it.  If  it  were  possible, 
we  should  love  to  make  the  passage  once  in  every 
month  of  the  year.  It  is  best  entered  from  below.  One 
requires  a  good  foot,  a  strong  hand,  and  a  cool  head, 
and  then  there  is  but  little  danger.  It  has  been 
attempted  successfully  by  ladies,  and  not  one  who  ever 
explored  it  will  regret  the  risk.  And  no  one  exploring 
the  scenery  in  the  vicinity  of  Salisbury  should  leave 
Sage's  Ravine  un visited. 


IX 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 

Trouting  in  a  mountain  brook  is  an  experience  of  life 
so  distinct  from  any  other,  that  every  man  should  enjoy 
it  once  at  least.  That  being  denied  to  most,  the  next 
best  that  I  can  do  for  you,  reader,  is  to  describe  it.  So, 
then,  come  on. 

We  have  a  rod  made  for  the  purpose,  six  feet  long, 
with  only  two  joints,  and  a  reel.  We  will  walk  up  the 
mountain  road,  listening  as  we  go  to  the  roar  of  the 
brook  on  the  left.  In  about  a  mile  the  road  crosses  it, 
and  begins  to  lift  itself  up  along  the  mountain  side, 
leaving  the  stream  at  every  step  lower  down  on  your 
right.  You  no  more  see  it  flashing  through  the  leaves ; 
but  its  softened  rush  is  audible  at  any  moment  you  may 
choose  to  pause  and  listen.  When  the  wind  moves 
through  the  whole  mountain  side  of  trees,  you  think  it 
to  be  the  rush  of  the  brook  down  some  rock.  But, 
when  you  stand  to  look  down  through  some  more  open 
glade,  and  see  the  misty  current,  far  down,  changing 
like  a  wild  dream,  through  woods  the  most  strange  and 
contrary,  it  seems  to  you  as  if  its  sound  was  the  voice 
of  all  the  woods  sunk  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley, 
and  murmuring  up  to  you,  in  soft  and  sad  complaint. 

But  you  must  see  one  thing  before  you  wet  the  soles 
of  your  feet  in  the  brook.  Select  a  point  from  which 
you  may  look  three  miles  down  through  the  vast  hollow, 


162 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 


whose  sides  are  .mountains  clad  with  forests.  These 
huge  trees  you  look  down  upon  as  if  they  were  grass. 
When  the  winds  move  them,  to  the  eye  the  swaying  is 
like  the  shadowy  roll  of  winds  over  a  wheat  field.  The 
trees  around  us,  handled  by  winds,  have  a  slow  and 
majestic  swaying.  Can  it  be  that  so  grave  a  movement 
here,  is  represented  far  down  yonder  by  that  mere 
shivering  and  silvery  trembling  of  the  leaves  ?  Can  you 
look  upon  this  gorgeous  summer  richness  and  imagine 
a  winter  storm  raging  at  the  gorge  ?  Clouds  scowling 
down,  snow  let  loose  from  them,  and  whirled  through 
the  bare-branched  trees,  and  then  eddying  down  into 
dark  clefts  and  frozen  corners  ?  Who  can  look  at  the 
one  scene,  winter  or  summer,  and  fully  think  of  the 
other?  Yet  both  reign  alternately  here.  They  who 
have  come  forth  from  towns  and  cities  only  in  summer, 
to  see  the  country,  know  little  of  the  grandeur  of 
mountains  in  winter. 

But  we  must  return  from  this  dream.  A  hot  August 
day  inclines  one  to  reflect  upon  ice  and  snow. 

We  will  put  into  the  brook  just  below  a  smart  foamy 
fall.  We  have  on  cow-hide  shoes,  and  other  rig  suitable. 
Selecting  an  entrance,  we  step  in,  and  the  swift  stream 
attacks  our  legs  with  immense  earnestness,  threatening 
to  take  us  off  from  them.  A  few  minutes  will  settle  all 
that,  and  make  us  quite  at  home.  The  bottom  of  the 
brook  is  not  sand  or  gravel,  but  rocks  of  every  shape, 
every  position,  of  all  sizes,  bare  or  moss-covered.  The 
stream  goes  over  them  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour. 
The  descent  is  great.    At  every  few  rods  cascades  break 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 


163 


over  ledges,  and  boil  up  in  miniature  pools  below. 
The  trees  on  either  side  shut  out  all  direct  rays  of  the 
sun,  and  for  the  most  part  the  bushes  line  the  banks  so 
closely,  and  cast  their  arms  over  so  widely,  that  they 
create  a  twilight — not  a  gray  twilight,  as  of  light  losing 
its  luster,  but  a  transparently  black  twilight,  which 
softens  nothing,  but  gives  more  ruggedness  to  the 
rocks,  and  a  somber  aspect  even  to  the  shrubs  and 
fairest  flowers. 

It  is  a  great  matter  to  take  a  trout  early  in  your 
trial.  It  gives  one  more  heart.  It  serves  to  keep  one 
about  his  business.  Otherwise,  you  are  apt  to  fall  off  into 
unprofitable  reverie ;  you  wake  up  and  find  yourself 
standing  in  a  dream,  half-seeing,  half-imagining,  under 
some  covert  of  over-arching  branches,  where  the  stream 
flows  black  and  broad  among  rocks,  with  moss  green 
above  the  water  and  dark  below  it. 

But  let  us  begin.  Standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  your  short  rod  in  hand,  let  out  twelve  to  twenty 
feet  of  line,  varying  its  length  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  stream,  and,  as  far  as  it  can  be  done,  keeping  its 
position  and  general  conduct  under  anxious  scrutiny. 
Just  here  the  water  is  mid-leg  deep.  Experimenting  at 
each  forward  reach  for  a  firm  foot-hold,  slipping,  stum- 
bling over  some  uncouth  stone,  sliding  on  the  moss  of 
another,  reeling  and  staggering,  you  will  have  a  fine 
opportunity  of  testing  the  old  philosophical  dictum,  that 
you  can  think  of  but  one  thing  at  a  time.  You  mast 
think  of  half  a  dozen ; — of  your  feet,  or  you  will  be 
sprawling  in  the  brook;  of  your  eyes  and  face,  or 


164 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 


the  branches  will  scratch  them;  of  your  line,  01  it  wili 
tangle  at  every  step ;  of  your  far-distant  hook  and 
dimly-seen  bait,  or  you  will  lose  the  end  of  all  your 
fishing.  At  first,  it  is  a  puzzling  business.  A  little 
practice  sets  things  all  right. 

Do  you  see  that  reach  of  shallow  water  gathered  to  a 
head  by  a  cross-bar  of  sunken  rocks  ?  The  water  splits 
in  going  over  upon  a  slab  of  rock  below,  and  forms  an 
eddy  to  the  right  and  one  to  the  left.  Let  us  try  a 
grasshopper  there.  Casting  it  in  above,  and  guiding  it 
by  a  motion  of  your  rod,  over  it  goes,  and  whirls  out 
of. the  myriad  bubbles  into  the  edge  of  the  eddy,  when, 
quick  as  a  wink,  the  water  breaks  open,  a  tail  flashes  in 
the  air  and  disappears,  but  re-appears  to  the  instant 
backward  motion  of  your  hand,  and  the  victim  comes 
sklittering  up  the  stream,  whirling  over  and  over,  till 
your  hand  grasps  him,  extricates  the  hook,  and  slipa 
him  into  the  basket.  Poor  fellow!  you  want  to  be 
sorry  for  him,  but  every  time  you  try  you  are  glad 
instead.  Standing  still,  you  bait  again,  and  try  the 
other  side  of  the  stream,  where  the  water,  wiping  off  the 
bubbles  from  its  face,  is  taking  toward  that  deep  spot 
under  a  side  rock.  There!  you've  got  him!  Still 
tempting  these  two  shores,  you  take  five  in  all,  and 
then  the  tribes  below  grow  cautious.  Letting  your  line 
run  before  you,  you  wade  along,  holding  on  by  one 
branch  and  another,  fumbling  with  your  feet,  along  the 
jagged  channel,  changing  hands  to  a  bough  on  the  left 
side,  leaning  on  this  rock,  stepping  over  that  stranded 
log.    Ripping  a  generous  hole  in  your  skirt  as  you 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 


165 


leave  it,  yon  come  to  the  edge  of  the  petty  fall.  You 
step  down,  thinking  only  how  to  keep  your  balance, 
and  not  at  all  of  the  probable  depth  of  water,  till  you 
splash  and  plunge  down  into  a  basin  waist-deep.  The 
first  sensations  of  a  man  up  to  his  vest  pockets  in  water 
are  peculiarly  foolish,  and  his  first  laugh  rather  faint. 
He  is  afterward  a  little  ashamed  of  the  alacrity  with 
which  he  scrambles  for  the  bank.  A  step  or  two  brings 
him  to  a  sand-bank  and  to  himself.  But  while  you  are 
in  a  scrape  at  one  end  of  your  line,  a  trout  has  got  into 
a  worse  one  at  the  other.  A  little  flurried  with  surprise 
at  both  experiences,  you  come  near  losing  him  in  the 
injudicious  haste  with  which  you  overhaul  him. 

But  see  what  a  stately  aster  has  ventured  in  hither 
In  these  black  shades,  through  which  the  sun  seldom 
penetrates,  there  is  yet  the  light  of  flowers.  What 
place  is  so  dark  that  there  is  no  light,  if  you  only  wait 
till  the  eye  is  used  to  its  minute  quantity  ?  and  what 
place  is  so  rugged  and  so  homely  that  there  is  no  beauty, 
if  you  only  have  a  sensibility  to  beauty  ?  But,  by  this 
flower,  and  by  more  which  I  dimly  see  through  the 
bushes,  and  lower  down,  I  judge  that  the  forest  is  thin, 
*  and  that  we  are  coming  to  a  more  open  space.  The 
stream  sweeps  grandly  about  an  angle,  and  we  open 
upon  a  bright,  half-sunlighted  reach  of  water. 

You  emerge  from  a  long  shadowy  archway  of  leaves 
and  trees,  and  stand  in  the  mouth  of  its  darkness  to 
look  down  upon  that  illuminated  spot.  The  leaves, 
struck  with  light  from  above,  are  translucent  in  all 
their  softer  parts,  while  their  opaque  frame-work  seems 


166 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 


like  pencil  lines  finely  drawn  upon  their  surface.  The 
sunlight  comes  checkering  through  the  leaves.  They, 
moving  to  a  gentle  wind,  seem  to  sliake  it  off  from 
themselves.  It  falls  upon  the  uncovered  surface  of  the 
whirling  brook,  and  flashes  back  in  inconstant  and 
fragmentary  glances.  The  very  gravel  glows  beneath 
the  lucid  water.  The  moss  upon  the  upheaved  stones 
has  a  golden  greenness  as  if  it  exhaled  about  itself  an 
atmosphere  of  color.  The  rocks  that  creep  down  to  the 
bank,  covered  too  with  moss-plush,  take,  in  spots,  a 
stray  reflected  light,  and  seem  to  be  luminous  rather 
than  illuminated.  A  hemlock  tree  by  the  bank  is 
covered  to  its  top  with  a  grape-vine,  from  among  whose 
broad  palms  it  shoots  out  its  arms  and  finely  cut  foliage 
in  vivid  contrast.  It  is  a  green  tent :  a  hollow  spire. 
I  would  that  it  stood  in  my  door-yard,  close  by  that 
cottage  which  shines  in  the  edge  of  that  grove  of  old 
trees  that  I  see  in  my  imaginary  grounds.  This  stream, 
too,  ought  to  flow  just  behind  that  grove;  and  that 
gigantic  grandly  unshaped  rock,  which  has  been  heaved 
out  of  its  bed  at  some  far  distant  day,  and  cast  down 
here,  crashing  like  a  thunderbolt, — 0  yes,  I  must  have 
that  in  my  grounds  too ; — but,  just  here  my  foot  slipped  ' 
from  the  unsteady  stone,  and  the  vision  burst  like  one 
of  the  bubbles  at  my  feet, — as  fair  and  as  fragile 

But  look  down  below,  through  this  sapphire  and 
emerald  atmosphere,  and  see  the  dark  arches  into  which 
the  stream  presses  headlong.  The  descent  is  greater 
there.  And  the  water  makes  haste  into  the  shadows 
while  the  trees  frown  upon  it,  and,  as  it  wheels  for 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM.  167 

a  plunge,  casts  up  pearl-drops  that  even  in  that  gloom 
seem  to  emit  a  pale  light.  One  could  stand  here  by 
the  hour.  This  rush  of  wild  waters  about  your  feet ; 
this  utter  lawlessness  of  power  and  beauty,  so  solitary, 
with  such  instant  contrasts,  with  the  sound  of  waters 
beneath  and  of  leaves  above,  and  you,  alone  and 
solitary,  standing  in  the  fascination  until  you  seem  to 
become  a  part  of  the  scene.  A  strange  sensation  steals 
over  you,  as  if  you  were  exhaling,  as  if  you  were  pass- 
ing out  of  yourself,  and  going  into  diffusive  alliance 
with  the  whole  scene !  You  reel  and  start  and  wake 
up,  saying,  Well !  well !  this  is  not  trouting ;  and 
start  off,  forgetful  of  stones,  crevices,  slippery  moss,  and 
snags,  as  if  you  were  in  a  level  road.  You  are  brought 
to  a  consciousness  at  your  third  step  by  a  slip,  a  plunge, 
a  full  tumble,  and  find  yourself,  in  the  most  natural 
manner,  upon  your  hands  and  knees,  making  one  more 
water-fall.  You  cannot  help  laughing  at  your  ludi-, 
crous  posture,  the  water  damming  itself  up  upon  you  as 
unceremoniously  as  if  you  were  a  log,  and  making  a 
pet  eddy  in  the  neighborhood  of  your  breeches  pocket. 
You  even  stop  to  sup  up  a  mouthful  of  drink,  and  wish 
that  somebody  that  knew  you  could  only  be  peeping 
through  the  bushes  at  your  predicament,  they  would 
get  a  great  deal  of  innocent  happiness  at  your  expense, 
but  not  at  your  damage. 

Gathering  up  your  awkward  body  you  go  dripping 
along  down  the  stream,  through  the  radiant,  spots  into 
the  dark,  up  to  the  falls,  over  which  you  peer,  and, 
learning  discretion  from  experience,  you  deem  it  best  to 


168  THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 

take  the  shore  and  walk  around  the  fall.  You,  are 
repaid  for  the  trouble  by  three  trout,  neatly  slipped  out 
of  their  aqueous  nest  into  your  willow  basket.  Step- 
ping in  again,  you  pursue  your  way  with  various 
experience  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  when  you  enter  a 
narrow  gorge.  The  rocks  come  down  in  a  body  to  the 
stieam  on  either  side.  There  are  no  side  bushes.  The 
way  opens  up  through  the  air,  far  above  you,  to  the 
receding  mountain  sides,  upon  which  stand  yet  a  few 
pines,  spared  of  the  axe,  memorials  of  a  vast  brother- 
hood long  since  chopped  away  by  the  inexorable  char- 
coalers.  The  very  stream  seems  to  take  something  of 
dignity  from  its  surroundings.  It  gathers  its  forces, 
contracts  its  channels,  darkens  its  surface,  and  moves 
down  to  a  succession  of  falls,  over  which  one  feels  no 
disposition  to  plunge.  And  so,  climbing  along  the 
edges  of  the  rock,  prying  into  each  crevice  with  youi 
|  toes,  grasping  twig  and  root,  bush  or  stem,  you  perch 
yourself  mid-way,  where  you  may  see  the  fall  above 
you,  and  the  fall  below  you.  Here  you  dream  for  a 
half  hour — a  waking,  gazing  dream.  You  study  each 
shoot  and  indentation  of  the  water — its  bursts  of  crystal 
drops — ever  changing,  yet  always  the  same.  On  the  far 
side  come  down  sheaves  of  water-stems.  Nowhere  is  the 
water  visible,  and  if  you  did  not  see  the  twinkling  drops 
cast  out  their  flash,  you  would  think  it  a  long  harvest- 
shock,  in  some  fairy  field  where  grain  bore  diamonds 
transparent  and  colorless;  from  side  to  side,  from  top 
to  bottom,  within  and  without,  it  is  struck  through  and 
through  with  air-mixed  drops,  so  that  it  shoots'  down 
from  top  to  bottom  like  a  flow  of  pearls  ana  crystals. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM.  169 

The  gulf  beneath  is  ragged  and  ugly.  Freshets  in 
spring  carrying  the  winter  out  of  the  mountains,  ice 
and  half-dissolved  snow,  surging  white  in  black  and 
furious  waters,  tear  up,  and  carry  over  these  cliffs, 
mighty  trees.  They  plunge  headlong,  sticking  fast 
where  they  strike,  gaunt,  upright,  till  time  and  the  ele- 
ments strip  them  of  bark  and  make  them  spectral  and 
shadowy  to  all  who  look  down  upon  them  in -that 
cavernous  hollow,  as  I  do  now. 

How  rich  and  various  are  the  mosses  in  this  ravine. 
You  sit  down  upon  their  moist  plush,  and  find  minia- 
ture palms  and  fern-like  branches,  and  all  manner  of 
real  or  fanciful  resemblances.  The  flowers  too,  those 
humble  friends,  have  not  forsaken  this  wild  glen. 
They  have  crept  up  to  drink  at  the  very  edge  of  the 
water ;  they  hang  secure  and  fearless  from  crevices  on 
the  face  of  the  perpendicular  rocks,  and  everywhere 
different  species  are  retreating  to  their  seed-forms  or 
advancing  to  their  bud,  or  are  shaking  their  blossoms 
to  the  wind  which  comes  up  from  the  gorge  below. 

Here  indeed  is  good  companionship— here  is  space 
for  deep  and  strange  joy.  If  the  thought  of  the  city 
intrudes  it  seems  like^  a  dream ;  it  can  hardly  be  real 
that  there  can  be  stacked  houses,  burning  streets,  reek- 
ing gutters,  everlasting  din  of  wheels,  and  outcry  of 
voices,  or  that  you  were  ever  hustled  along  the  up- 
roarious streets !  In  this  cool  twilight,  without  a  voice 
except  of  wind  and  waters,  where  all  is  ^primeval, 
solitary,  and  rudely  beautiful,  you  seem  to  come  out  of 
yourself.  Your  life  lifts  itself  up  from  its  interior 
8 


170  '  THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 

recesses,  and  comes  forth.  Your  own  nature — yoiu 
longings — your  hope  and  love — your  faith  and  trust, 
*  seem  to  live  with  quiet  and  unshrinking  life ;  neither 
ruffled  nor  driven  back,  nor  overlaid  by  all  the  contacts 
and  burdens  of  multitudinous  life  in  the  city.  O ! 
why  may  not  one  carry  hence,  that  freshness  which  he 
feels — that  simplicity,  that  truthfulness  to  what  is  real, 
and  that  repugnance  to  all  that  is  sham  ?  Why  may 
not  one  always  find  the  way  to  heaven  and  to  spiritual 
converse,  as  short  and  as  facile  as  it  is  in  these  lonely 
mountains  ? 

It  was  in  such  places  that  Christ  loved  to  stray.  It 
was  in  such  places  that  he  spent  nights  in  prayer.  I 
never  linger  long  in  such  scenes  without  a  thought  of 
his  example,  and  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  why 
it  should  be  so.  Christ's  love  of  nature,  his  constant 
allusions  to  flowers,  his  evident  familiarity  with  soli- 
tudes, as  if  he  was  never  so  little  alone  as  when 
separated  from  all  men,  mark  any  degree  of  the  same 
relish  in  us  as  a  true  and  divine  taste. 

But  we  must  hasten  on.  A  few  more  spotted  spoils 
are  awaiting  us  below.  We  make  at  the  brook  again. 
We  pierce  the  hollow  of  over-hanging  bushes,  we 
strike  across  the  patches  of  sun-light,  which  grow  more 
frequent  as  we  get  lower  down  toward  the  plain;  we 
take  our  share  of  tumbles  and  slips;  we  patiently 
extricate  our  entangled  line,  again  and  again,  as  it  is 
sucked  down  under  some  log,  or  whirled  around  son>* 
network  of  beechen  roots  protruding  from  the  shore. 
Here  and  there,  we  half  forget  our  errand  as  we  break 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 


171 


in  upon  some  cove  of  moss,  where  our  dainty  feet  halt 
upon  green  velvet,  more  beautiful  a  thousand  times  than 
ever  sprung  from  looms  at  Brussels  or  Kidderminster. 

At  length  we  hear  the  distant  clatter  of  mills.  We 
have  finished  the  brook.  Farewell — wild,  wayward, 
simple  stream !  As  many  as  are  all  the  drops  that 
have  flowed  in  your  channels  since  we  came,  so  many 
thoughts  and  joys  have  flowed  down  through  our  soul  I 
In,  a  few  moments  you  will  be  grown  to  a  huge  mill- 
pond  ;  then  at  work  upon  its  wheel ;  then,  prim  and 
proper,  with  ruffles  of  willow  and  aquatic  bushes  on 
each  side,  you  will  trip  through  the  meadows,  clatter 
across  the  road,  and  mingle  with  the  More-brook,  flow 
on  toward  the  Ilousatonic — and  be  lost  in  its  depths 
and  breadths.  For  who  will  know  thy  mountain-drops 
in  that  promiscuous  flood?  Or  who,  standing  on  its 
banks,  will  dream  from  what  scenes  thou  hast  flowed, 
through  what  beauty — thyself  the  most  beautiful  ? 


X. 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE. 

Men  never  will  see  the  country  who  fly  through"  it  at 
the  rate  of  thirty  or  forty  miles  an  hour.  The  usual 
path  of  railroads  never  lies  through  the  most  interest- 
ing portions.  The  very  best  method  of  traveling  is  upon 
horseback.  Next  best,  if  you  are  strong  and  hearty,  or 
if  you  wish  to  become  so,  is  foot- traveling.  The  pedes- 
trian is,  in  all  respects,  the  most  independent,  and  the 
best  prepared  to  explore  in  detail. 

If  you  are  on  horseback,  you  can  do  more  in  a 
shorter  period.  You  abbreviate  the  time  and  labor  of 
passing  over  the  intermediate  space  between  you  and 
the  points  of  interest.  Besides,  there  is  more  company 
in  a  spirited  horse  a  thousand  times  than  in  a  foolish 
man.  You  sit  in  your  saddle  at  ease,  giving  him  his 
own  way,  the  bridle  loose,  while  you  search  on  either 
side  the  various  features  of  the  way.  Your  nag  becom- 
ing used  to  you  and  you  to  him,  a  sympathetic  connec- 
tion is  established,  and  he  always  seems  to  do,  of  his 
own  reflection,  just  what  you  wish  him  to  do.  Now  a 
leisurely  swinging  walk,  now  a  smart  trot,  then  a  spir- 
ited bit  of  a  canter,  which  imperceptibly  dies  out  into 
an  amble,  a  pace,  and  then  a  walk  again.  When  you  rise 
a  hill  to  overlook  a  bold  prospect,  can  anybody  per- 
suade you  that  your  horse  does  not  enjoy  the  sight  too? 
His  ears  go  forward,  his  eye  lights  up  with  a  large  and 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE. 


173 


bright  look,  and  he  gazes  for  a  moment  with  equine  en- 
thusiasm, till  some  succulent  bough  or  grassy  tuft  con- 
verts his  taste  into  a  physical  form.  A  good  horse  is  a 
perfect  gentleman.  He  meets  you  in  the  morning  with 
unmistakable  pleasure;  if  you  are  near  the  grain-bin, 
he  will  give  you  the  most  cordial  invitation,  if  not  to 
breakfast  with  him,  at  least  to  wait  upon  him  in  that 
interesting  ceremony.  His  drinking  is  particularly 
nice.  He  always  loves  running  water,  in  the  clearest 
brook,  at  the  most  sparkling  place  in  it.  No  man  shall 
make  me  believe  that  he  does  not  observe  and  quietly 
enjoy  the  sun-flash  on  the  gravel  beneath,  and  on  the 
wavy  surface  above.  He  arches  down  his  neck  to  the 
surface,  his  mane  falls  gracefully  over  his  head,  he 
drinks  with  hearty  earnestness,  and  the  throbbing  swal- 
lows pulsate  so  audibly  and  musically  that  you  feel  a 
sympathetic  thirst.  Now  he  lifts  his  head,  and  looks 
first  up  the  road  to  see  who  is  coming,  and  then  down 
the  road,  at  those  work-horses,  turned  loose,  affecting 
gayety  with  their  old  stiff  legs  and  hooped  bellies,  and 
then,  with  a  long  breath,  he  takes  the  after-drink. 
Once  more  lifting  his  head,  but  now  only  a  few  inches 
above  the  surface,  the  drops  trickle  from  his  lips  back 
to  the  brook.  Finally,  he  cleanses  his  mouth,  and 
chews  his  bit,  and  plays  with  the  surface  of  the  water 
with  his  lithe  lip,  and  begins  to  paw  the  stream. 

Guiding  him  out,  you  propose  to  yourself  a  real 
boy's  drink.  Selecting  a  favorable  place,  on  a  dry 
bank,  where  the  stones  give  you  a  suitable  rest,  you  lie 
flat  down,  at  full  length,  and  begin.    Your  luck  will 


174 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE. 


depend  upcn  your  judgment  of  places  and  skill  of  per- 
formance.   Should  you  be  too  dignified  to  lie  down, 
you  will  probably  compromise  and  kneel,  awkwardly 
protruding  your  head  to  the  edge,  where  a  little  pool 
breaks  over  a  rim  of  rock ;  thus  you  will  be  sure  to  send 
the  first  drops  down  the  wrong  way.    Musical  as  is 
crystal  water  softly  flowing  over  silver  gravel,  between 
fringed  banks,  its  passage  down  the  breathing  tubes  is 
anything  but  musical  or  graceful ;  and  you  will  have 
an  episode  with  your  handkerchief  behind  the  bushes 
— coughing,  crying,  being  greatly  exercised  in  various 
ways.    But  if  you  are  willing  to  be  a  real  boy  (and  no 
one  is  a  real  man  after  he  has  lost  out  all  the  boy),  then 
you  must  lie  level  with  the  stream,  careless  of  grass  or 
gravel,  and  apply  your  lips  gently,  just  above  the  point 
of  the  ripple,  where  it  breaks  over  the  gravel,  and  you 
shall  quietly  and  relishfully  quench  your  thirst.   If  you 
be  handsome,  or  think  yourself  so,  you  can  regale  your 
eyes,  too,  with  a  fair  face,  seen  in  that  original  mirror 
in  which,  long  before  quicksilver  or  polished  metal, 
Adam  and  Eve  made  their  toilet.     There  is  yet  an- 
other mode :  with  both  your  hands  form  a  cup,  by  lap- 
ping the  little  finger  of  the  left  hand  upon  the  corre- 
sponding part  of  the  right,  and  then  curving  the  whole 
in  a  bowl-form.   A  little  practice  will  enable  you  to  lift 
and  drink  from  this  ruby  goblet  with  great  ease,  where 
the  ground  does  not  permit  recumbency.    A  good  pair 
of  hands,  such  as  ours,  ought  to  hold  two  large  and  one 
small  mouthfuls.    But  that  will  depend  somewhat  on 
the  size  of  the  mouth. 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE 


175 


But  it  was  not  to  tell  yon  how  to  drink,  nor  how  our 
good  and  companionable  horse  drinks,  that  this  sheet 
was'  begun ;  but  to  urge  those  who  can  command  lei- 
sure in  September  or  October,  avoiding  all  beaten  paths 
of  pleasure,  to  make  a  tour  through  the  mountain 
country  of  western  Connecticut  and  Massachusetts.  If 
you  are  young,  and  not  abundant  in  means,  and  can 
get  a  friend  to  accompany  you,  go  afoot.  If  you  are 
able,  go  on  horseback.  If  you  wish  to  take  your  wife, 
your  mother,  or  a  sister,  then  a  light,  four-wheeled, 
covered  buggy  is  to  be  elected.  If  there  be  three  or 
four  of  you,  take  two  horses  and  a  two-seat  light  car- 
riage, with  a  movable  top. 

Limit  your  articles  of  dress  to  a  few,  and  those  not 
easily  torn  or  soiled ;  for  it  is  good  and  most  morally 
wholesome  for  Americans  once  in  a  while  to  dress  and 
to  act,  not  upon  the  rule  of  "  What  will  people  think  ?" 
but  according  to  their  own  real  necessities  and  conve- 
nience. And,  above  all,  let  every  woman  have  a 
bloomer  dress,  for  the  sake  of  foot-excursions.  In  the 
city  or  town,  our  eye  is  yet  in  bondage  to  the  old 
forms.  But  in  the  country,  where  the  fields  are  to  be 
traveled,  the  rocks  climbed,  brooks  crossed  and  re- 
crossed,  fences  scaled,  bushes  and  weeds  navigated,  a 
woman  in  a  long  dress  and  multitudinous  petticoats  is 
a  ridiculous  or  a  pitiable  object.  Something  is  always 
catching;  the  party  is  detained  till  each  woman  can 
gather  up  her  flowing  robes,  and  clutch  them  in  her 
left  hand,  while  a  shawl,  parasol  and  bonnet-strings  fill 
up  the  right  hand.    Thus  she  is  engineered  over  and 


176 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE. 


around  the  rocks  or  logs;  and,  in  spite  of  all  pains  and 
gallantry,  returns  home  bedrabbled  and  ragged.  A 
bloomer  costume  leaves  the  motion  free,  dispenses 
with  half  the  help  from  without,  and  avoids  needless 
exposure  of  one's  person.  If,  ignorant  of  what  is  best, 
a  fair  friend  is  caught  in  the  country  without  such  suit- 
able dress,  she  is  to  be  pitied,  not  blamed.  But  where 
one  may  have  them,  and  rejects  them  for  field-excur- 
sions as  unbecoming  and  ridiculous,  let  me  assure  such 
foolish  persons  that  it  is  the  only  dress  that  is  really 
decent.  I  should  think  less  of  one's  judgment  and 
delicacy  who,  after  a  fair  trial  of  both  dresses,  in  an  ex- 
cursion requiring  much  field-walking,  was  not  heartily 
converted  to  the  theory  of  Bloomerism  and  to  its  prac- 
tice in  the  country. 

Having  dispatched  preliminaries,  we  are  now  ready 
for  our  tour.  If  one  has  not  leisure  for  detailed  explo- 
rations, and  can  spend  but  a  week,  let  him  begin,  say 
at  Sharon,  or  Salisbury,  both  in  Connecticut,  and  both 
accessible  from  the  Harlem  railroad.  On  either  side, 
to  the  east  and  to  the  west,  ever-varying  mountain- 
forms  frame  the  horizon.  There  is  a  constant  succes- 
sion of  hills  swelling  into  mountains,  and  of  mountains 
flowing  down  into  hills.  The  hues  of  green  in  trees,  in 
grasses,  and  in  various  harvests,  are  endlessly  con 
trasted.  There  are  no  forests  so  beautiful  as  those 
made  up  of  both  evergreen  and  deciduous  trees. 

At  Salisbury,  you  come  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Taconic  range.  Here  you  may  well  spend  a  week,  for 
the  sake  of  the  rides  and  the  objects  of  curiosity.  Four 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE. 


177 


miles  to  the  east  are  the  Falls  of  the  Housatonic,  called 
Canaan  Falls,  very  beautiful,  and  worthy  of  much 
longer  study  than  they  usually  get.  Prospect  Hill, 
not  far  from  Falls  Village,  affords  altogether  the  most 
beautiful  view  of  any  of  the  many  peaks  with  which 
this  neighborhood  abounds.  Many  mountain-tops  of 
far  greater  celebrity  afford  less  various  and  beautiful 
views.  Near  to  it  is  the  Wolf's  Den,  a  savage  cleft  in 
the  rocks,  through  which  you  grope  as  if  you  had  for- 
saken light  and  hope  for  ever.  On  the  west  of  Salis- 
bury you  ascend  Mount  Eiga  to  Bald  Peak,  thence  to 
Brace  Mountain,  thence  to  the  Dome,  thence  to  that 
grand  ravine  and  its  wild  water,  Bash-Bish — a  ride,  in 
all,  of  about  eighteen  miles,  and  wholly  along  the 
mountain-bowl.  On  the  eastern  side  of  this  range,  and 
about  four  miles  from  Norton's  house,  in  'Salisbury 
(where  you  will  of  course  put  up),  is  Sage's  Eavine, 
which  is  the  antithesis  of  Bash-Bish.  Sage's  Eavine, 
not  without  grandeur,  has  its  principal  attractions  in  its 
beauty ;  Bash-Bish,  far  from  destitute  of  beauty,  is  yet 
most  remarkable  for  grandeur.  Both  are  solitary,  rug- 
ged, full  of  rocks,  cascades,  grand  waterfalls,  and  a 
savage  rudeness  tempered  to  beauty  and  softness  by 
various  and  abundant  mosses,  lichens,  flowers  and 
vines.  I  would  willingly  make  the  journey  once  a 
month  from  New  York  to  see  either  of  them.  Just 
beyond  Sage's  Eavine,  very  beautiful  falls  may  be 
seen,  after  heavy  rains,  which  have  been  named  Nor* 
toil's  Falls. 

Besides  these  and  other  mountain  scenery — to  which, 
8* 


178 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE 


if  described,  we  must  give  a  separate  letter — there  are 
the  Twin  Lakes  on  the  north  of  Salisbury,  and  the  two 
lakes  on  the  south,  around  which  the  rides  are  ex- 
tremely  beautiful.  But  they  should  always  be  after- 
noon rides  ;  for  these  discreet  lakes  do  not  choose  to 
give  out  their  fall  charms  except  at  about  an  hour 
before  sunset.  The  rides  in  all  this  neighborhood  are 
very  fine,  and  a  week  at  Salisbury  (if  the  weather  be 
fine  and  your  disposition  reasonable)  will  be  apt  to 
tempt  you  back,  again  and  again. 

From  Salisbury  to  Great  Barington  the  road  lies 
along  the  base  of  the  mountains,  and,  indeed,  is  called 
the  under-mountain  road.  Great  Barington  is  one  of 
those  places  which  one  never  enters  without  wishing 
never  to  leave.  It  rests  beneath  the  branches  of  great 
numbers  of  the  stateliest  elms.  It  is  a  place  to  be  de- 
sired as  a  summer  residence. 

Next,  to  the  north,  is  Stockbridge,  famed  for  its  mea- 
dow-elms, for  the  picturesque  scenery  adjacent,  for  the 
quiet  beauty  of  a  village  which  sleeps  along  a  level 
plain,  just  under  the  rim  of  hills.  If  you  wish  to  be 
filled  and  satisfied  with  the  serenest  delight,  ride  to  the 
summit  of  this  encircling  hill-ridge,  in  a  summer's 
afternoon,  while  the  sun  is  but  an  hour  high.  The 
Housatonic  winds,  in  great  circuits,  all  through  the 
valley,  carrying  willows  and  alders  with  it  wherever  it 
goes.  The  horizon,  on  every  side,  is  piled  and  ter- 
raced with  mountains.  Abrupt  and  isolated  mountains 
bolt  up  here  and  there  over  the  whole  stretch  of  plain, 
covered  with  evergreens.     Upon  the  northern  ridge, 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE. 


179 


lived  the  worthy  Dr.  West,  known  and  honored  among 
JSTew  England  theologians,  It  is  but  recently  that  his 
old  house  was  demolished.  And  this  very  spot  we 
came  near  purchasing  for  a  summer  house. 

But  Stockbridge  is  memorable  to  us,  chiefly,  as  the 
residence  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  once  a  missionary 
among  the  Indians.  The  colonial  government,  with 
singular  wisdom,  established  among  the  Indians  a  desi- 
rable system  of  culture.  Families  of  the  utmost  integ- 
rity were  selected  to  live  among  them  and  teach  them 
in  mechanic  arts,  husbandry,  and  various  social  civili- 
zation. A  religious  teacher  was  also  put  in  charge  of 
their  moral  and  spiritual  interests.  And  among  these 
missionaries,  Jonathan  Edwards,  after  his  dismission 
from  Northampton,  as  a  man  too  progressive  in  his 
tendencies,  was  by  far  the  most  remarkable.  The 
house,  where  he  lived,  and  in  which  he  wrote  his 
world-renowned  treatise  on  the  Will,  still  stands  strong, 
and  fair  for  another  hundred  years'  existence.  The 
very  place  where  he  sat  to  write  this  work — then  a  lit- 
tle writing  closet,  now  a  portion  of  the  parlor — is  to  be 
seen  by  all  who  have  curiosity  in  such  matters.  We 
often  ride  through  this  beautiful  village  in  summer, 
and  never,  without  driving  down  to  the  Edwards  house, 
and  going  back  in  imagination  to  the  simplicity  and 
the  humble  devotedness  of  this  man,  in  a  field  appa- 
rently the  least  fitted  for  one  of  his  philosophic  tastes. 
He  seemed  unconscious  of  greatness.  He  was  not 
pestered,  as  smaller  men  are,  with  great  solicitude  lest 
they  should  be  found  in  a  field  too  small  for  the  emi- 


180  A  COUNTRY  RIDE. 

nence  of  their  gifts.  Around  about  Stockbridge  are 
many  charming  rides,  and  places  of  curiosity  for  all  to 
visit.  An  excellent  hotel  is  kept,  and  is  usually  well 
filled  in  summer  with  refugees  from  the  arid  city. 

Going  north  four  or  five  miles,  we  come  to  Lenox, 
known  for  the  singular  purity  and  exhilarating  effects 
of  its  air,  and  for  the  beauty  of  its  mountain  scenery. 
As  it  is  to  be  hereafter  our  summer  home,  we  shall  be 
regarded  as  a  partial  witness  in  its  favor.  But,  if  one 
spends  July  or  October  in  Lenox,  they  will  hardly 
seek  another  home  for  summer.  The  church  stands 
"upon  the  highest  point  in  the  village,  and  if,  in  sum- 
mer, one  stands  in  the  door,  and  gazes  upon  the  vast 
panorama,  he  might,  without  half  of  the  Psalmist's 
devotion,  prefer  to  stand  in  the  door  of  the  Lord's 
house,  to  a  dwelling  in  tent,  tabernacle,  or  mansion. 
Close  by,  and  equally  eminent,  and  rich  in  prospect, 
lies  the  village  graveyard.  No  dark  and  sickly  fogs 
ever  gather  at  evening  about  it.  It  lies  nearer  heaven 
than  any  place  about.  It  is  good  to  have  our  mortal 
remains  go  upward  for  their  burial,  and  catch  the 
earliest  sounds  of  that  trumpet  which  shall  raise  the 
dead ! 

Some  talk  has  been  made  of  rebuilding  the  church 
lower  down  in  the  village.  Long  may  the  day  be  dis- 
tant when  it  shall  be  done!  The  brightest  thing  in 
the  village  is  the  church  upon  the  hill !  It  was  in  the 
adjacent  burial-ground  that  Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble  Butler 
desired  to  rest  when  her  work  on  earth  was  over.  "  I 
will  not  rise  to  trouble  any  one  if  they  will  let  me 


A  COUNTRY  RIDE.  181 

sleep  there.  I  will  ask  only  to  be  permitted,  once  in  a 
while,  to  raise  my  head,  and  look  out  upon  this  glori- 
ous scene!"  May  she  behold  one  so  much  fairer,  that 
this  scenic  beauty  shall  fade  to  a  shadow ! 

From  Salisbury  to  Williamstown,  and  then  to  Ben- 
ington  in  Vermont,  there  stretches  a  county  of  valleys, 
lakes  and  mountains,  that  is  yet  to  be  as  celebrated  .as 
the  lake-district  of  England  and  the  hill- country  of 
Palestine. 


XL 

■ 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

Salisbury.  Conn.,  Sept.  16,  1553. 

During  two  summers  we  have  found  a  home  in  this 
hill-country.  We  have  explored  its  localities  in  every 
direction.  The  outlines  of  its  horizon,  its  peaks  and 
headlands,  its  mountains  and  gorges,  its  streams  and 
valleys,  have  become  familiar  to  us.  It  is  a  sad  feeling 
that  we  have  in  going  away. 

Nature  makes  so  many  overtures  to  those  who  love 
her,  and  stamps  so  many  remembrances  of  herself  upon 
their  affections,  and  draws  forth  to  her  bosom  so  much 
of  our  very  self,  that,  at  length,  the  fields,  the  hills,  the 
trees,  and  the  various  waters,  become  a  journal  of  our 
life.  In  riding  over  from  Millerton  to  Salisbury  (six 
miles),  for  the  last  time,  probably,  for  years,  we  could 
not  but  remark  what  a  hold  the  face  of  the  country  had 
got  upon  us.  This  round  hill  on  the  left,  as  we  draw 
near  the  lakes,  it  is  our  hill !  Hundreds  of  times  we 
have  greeted  it,  and  been  greeted ;  we  have  bounded 
over  it;  in  imagination  we  have  built  under  those  trees, 
and  welcomed  friends  to  our  air-cottage.  How  often, 
at  sunset,  have  we  looked  forth  north,  east,  south  and 
west,  and  harvested  from  each  direction  great  stores  of 
beauty  and  of  joy.  As  we  wound  aiound  its  base,  a 
three-quarter's  moon  shining  full  and  bright,  the  two 
lakes  began  to  appear  in  silver  spots  through  the  trees, 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY.  183 

When  we  reached  the  summit  of  the  road,  they  opened 
in  full,  and  glimmered  and  shone  like  molten  silver. 
For  more  beautiful  sheets  of  water,  and  more  beautiful 
sites  from  which  to  look  at  them,  one  may  search  far 
without  finding. 

During  a  few  days7  absence  the  first  frost  has  fallen. 
The  Beaper  then  has  .come !  And  this  is  the  sharp 
sickle  whose  unwhetted  edge  will  cut  all  before  it! 
"We  had,  before  this,  noticed  the  blood- red  dogwood  in 
the  forests,  and  a  few  vines  that  blushed  at  full  length, 
with  here  and  there  a  maple  in  swamp-lands,  that  were 
prematurely  taking  bright  colors.  But  now  all  things 
will  hasten.  Two  weeks,  and  less,  will  bring  October. 
That  is  the  painted  month.  Every  green  thing  loves 
to  die  in  bright  colors.  The  vegetable  cohorts  march 
glowing  out  of  the  year  in  flaming  dresses,  as  if  to 
leave  this  earth  were  a  triumph  and  not  a  sadness.  It 
is  never  Nature  that  is  sad,  but  only  we,  that  dare 
not  look  back  on  the  past,  and  that  have  not  its  pro- 
phesy of  the  future  in  our  bosoms.  Men  will  sit  down 
beneath  the  shower  of  golden  leaves  that  every  puff  of 
wind  will  soon  cast  down  in  field  and  forest,  and  re- 
member the  days  of  first  summer  and  the  vi^or  of 
young  leaves ;  will  mark  the  boughs  growing  bare,  and 
the  increasing  spaces  among  the  thickest  trees,  through 
which  the  heavens  every  day  do  more  and  more  ap- 
pear, as  their  leaves  grow  fewer  and  none  spring  again 
to  repair  the  waste — and  sigh  that  the  summer  passeth 
and  the  winter  cometh.  How  many  suggestions  of  his 
own  life  and  decay  will  one  find ! 


184:  FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

But  fchere  is  as  much  of  life  in  autumn  as  of  death,  and 
as  much  of  creation  and  of  growth  as  of  passing  away. 
Every  flower  has  left  its  house  full  of  seeds.  No  leaf 
has  dropped  until  a  bud  was  born  to  it.  Already, 
another  year  is  hidden  along  the  bougns ;  another  sum- 
mer is  secure  among  the  declining  flowers.  Along  the 
banks  the  green  heart-shaped  leaves  of  the  violet  tell 
me  that  it  is  all  well  at  the  root;  and  in  turning  the  soil 
I  find  those  spring  beauties  that  died,  to  be  only  sleep- 
ing. Heart,  take  courage !  What  the  heart  has  once 
owned  and  had,  it  shall  never  lose.  There  is  resurrec- 
tion-hope not  alone  in  the  garden-sepulchre  of  Christ. 
Every  flower  and  every  tree  and  every  root  are  annual 
prophets  sent  to  affirm  the  future  and  cheer  the  way. 
Thus,  as  birds,  to  teach  their  little  ones  to  fly,  do  fly 
first  themselves  and  show  the  way ;  and  as  guides,  that 
would  bring  the  timid  to  venture  into  the  dark-faced 
ford,  do  first  go  back  and  forth  through  it,  so  the  yeai 
and  all  its  mighty  multitudes  of  growths  walk  in  and 
out  before  us,  to  encourage  our  faith  of  life  by  death ; 
of  decaying  for  the  sake  of  better  growth.  Every  seed  ' 
and  every  bud  whispers  to  us  to  secure,  while  the  leaf 
is  yet  green,  that  germ  which  shall  live  when  frosts 
have  destroyed  leaf  and  flower. 

Is  there  any  thing  that  the  heart  needs  more  than 
this  ?  Is  there  any  thing  that  can  comfort  the  heart  out 
of  which  dear  ones  have  fled,  as  birds  flying  out  of  and 
forsaking  the  trees  where  they  were  wonted  to  sit  and 
sing,  but  the  assurance  of  their  speedy  re-coming  ? 
They  are  not  silent  everywhere  because  they  do  not 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


185 


speak  to  us  here.  Their  feet  still  walk,  though  no 
footfall  may  be  in  our  houses.  Thine,  O  Death,  was 
the  furrow;  we  cast  therein  our  precious  seed.  Now 
let  us  wait  and  see  what  God  shall  bring  forth  for  us. 
A  single  leaf  falls — the  bud  at  its  axil  will  shoot  forth 
many  leaves.  The  husbandman  bargains  with  the  year 
to  give  back  a  hundred  grains  for  each  one  buried. 
Shall  God  be~  less  generous  ?  Yet,  when  we  sow,  pur 
hearts  think  that  beauty  is  gone  out,  that  all  is  lost. 
But*  when  God  shall  bring  again  to  our  eyes  the 
hundred-fold  beauty  and  sweetness  of  that  which  we 
planted,  how  shall  we  shame  over  that  dim  faith,  that 
having  eyes  saw  not,  and  ears  heard  not,  though  all 
heaven  and  all  the  earth  appeared  and  spake,  to  com- 
fort those  who  mourn.  And  yet!  and  yet! — something 
sinks  heavily  down  and  weighs  the  heart  too  hardly. 
The  future  is  bright  enough  ;  but,  the  Now  ! 

This  glorious  vision,  this  hope  and  everlasting  surety 
of  the  future,  how  shallow  were  life  without  it,  and 
how  deep  beyond  all  fathoming  with  it !  The  threads 
that  broke  in  the  loom  here  shall  be  taken  up  there. 
The  veins  of  gold,  that  penetrate  this  mighty  mountain 
of  Time  and  Earth,  shall  then  have  forsaken  the  rock 
and  dirt,  and  shine  in  a  sevenfold  purity.  All  those 
wrongly  estranged  and  separated,  and  all  who,  with 
great  hearts,  seeking  good  for  men,  do  yet  fall  out  and 
contend,  and  all  they  ,  who  bear  about  hearts  of  earnest 
purpose,  longing  to  love,  and  to  do,  but  hindered  and 
baulked,  and  made  to  carry  hidden  fire  in  their  souls 
that  warms  no  one,  but  only  burns  the  censer,  and  all 


186  FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

they  who  are  united  for  mutual  discomfort,  and  all  who 
are  separated  that  should  have  walked  together,  and  all 
that  inwardly  or  outwardly  live  in  a  dream  all  their 
days,  longing  for  the  dawn  and  the  waking, — to  all 
such  how  blessed  is  the  dawn  of  the  Eesurrection ! 
The  stone  is  rolled  away,  and  angels  sit  upon  it ;  and 
all  who  go  groping  toward  the  grave  to  search  for  that 
which  is  lost,  shall  hear  their  voices  teaching  them  that 
Heaven  harvests  and  keeps  whatever  of  good  the  earth 
loses. 

But  we  began  to  write  for  the  sake  of  saying  farewell 
to  old  Salisbury  and  to  all  its  beautiful  scenery.  The 
enjoyment  which  one  receives  in  an  eight  weeks'  com- 
munion with  such  objects  as  abound  here  can  not  be 
measured  in  words.  We  are  not  ashamed  to  acknowl- 
edge that  our  last  ride  through  the  familiar  places  was 
attended  with  an  overflow  of  gratitude,  as  intelligent 
and  distinct  as  ever  we  experienced  toward  a  living 
person.  Why  not?  Did  not  God  create  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  full  of  benefactions?  Did  he  not  set 
forth  all  enchantments  of  morning  and  evening,  all 
processes  of  the  seasons,  to  be  almoners  of  His  own 
bounty  ?  God  walks  through  the  earth  with  ten  thou- 
sand gifts  which  he  finds  no  one  willing  to  receive. 
( Men  live  in  poverty,  in  sadness  and  dissatisfaction, 
yearning  and  wishing  for  joy,  while  above  them  and 
about  them,  upon  the  grandest  scale,  with  variations 
beyond  record,  are  stores  of  pleasure  beyond  all  ex- 
haustion, and  incapable  of  palling  upon  the  taste. 
When  our  heart  has  dwelt  for  a  long  time  in  these 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY.  187 

royalties,  and  lias  been  made  rich  with  a  wealth  that 
brings  no  care,  nor  burden,  nor  corruption,  and  that 
wastes  only  to  burst  forth  with  new  treasures  and 
sweeter  surprises,  we  can  not  forbear  thanksgiving  and 
gratitude  which  fills  the  eye  rather  than  moves  the 

i 

tongue.  It  is  not  alone  thanks  to  God.  By  a  natural 
process  the  mind  gives  sentient  life  to  His  messengers, 
and  regards  them  as  the  cheerful  and  conscious  stew- 
ards of  divine  mercy,  and  thanks  them  heartily  for 
doing  what  God  sent  them  to  do.  Nor  can  we  forbear 
a  sense  of  sorrow  that  that  which  was  meant  for  so 
great  a  blessing  to  all  men  should  be  wasted,  upon  the 
greatest  number  of  men,  either  because  they  lack  edu- 
cation toward  siJteh  things,  or  lack  a  sensibility  which 
produces  enjoyment  without  an  education. 

If  there  were  an  artist  to  come  among  us  who  could 
stand  in  Metropolitan  Hall  in  the  presence  of  a  living 
assemblage,  and  work  with  such  marvelous  celerity  and 
genius,  that  in  a  half-hour  there  should  glow  from  his 
canvas  a  gorgeous  sunset,  such  as  flushes  the  west  in 
an  October  day;  and  then,  when  the  spectators  had 
gazed  their  fill,  should  rub  it  hastily  out,  and  overlay 
it,  in  a  twenty  minutes'  work,  with  another  picture, 
such  as  God  paints  rapidly  after  sunset — its  silver 
white,  its  faint  apple-green,  its  pink,  its  yellow,  its 
orange  hues,  imperceptibly  mingling  into  grays  and 
the  black-blue  of  the  upper  arch  of  the  heavens,  to  be 
rubbed  out  again,  and  succeeded  by  pictures  of  clouds 
— all,  or  any,  of  those  extraordinary  combinations  of 
grandeur,  in  form  and  in  color,  that  make  one  tremble 


188 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


to  stand  and  look  up ;  these  again  to  be  followed  by 
vivid  portraitures  of  more  calm  atmospheric  conditions 
of  the  heavens,  without  form  or  vapor;  and  so  on 
endlessly, — such  a  man  would  be  followed  by  eager 
crowds,  his  works  lauded,  and  he  called  a  god.  He 
would  be  a  god.  Such  as  &od.  So  he  fills  the  heavens 
with  pictures,  strikes  through  them  with  effacement 
that  he  may  find  room  for  the  expression  of  the  endless 
riches  of  the  divine  ideas  of  beauty  and  majesty.  "-The 
heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament 
showeth  his  handiwork."  The  Psalmist  then  boldly 
personifies  days  and  nights,  as  if  they  were  sentinek 
and  spectators,  each,  as  it  passes  from  his  watch  re- 
hearsing what  it  had  seen:  "Day  ititito  day  uttereth 
speech,  and  night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge." 

We  are  thankful  that  our  incarceration  in  the  city, 
though  it  shuts  out  all  these  things,  can  not  efface  the 
memory  of  a  summer's  happiness.  That  glows  and 
lives  again,  and  will  be  a  sweet  twilight  on  our  path, 
till  another  season  and  another  vacation. 


XII. 

SCHOOL  REMINISCENCE. 

It  was  our  misfortune,  in  boyhood,  to  go  to  a  Bis* 
trict  School.  A  little,  square,  pine  building,  blazing 
in  the  sun,  stood  upon  the  highway,  without  a  tree  for 
shade  or  shadow  near  it;  without  bush,  yard,  fence 
or  circumstance  to  take  off  its  bare,  cold,  hard,  hateful 
look.  Before  the  door,  in  winter,  was  the  pile  of  wood 
for  fuel;  and  there,  in  summer,  were  all  the  chips  of 
the  winter's  wood. 

In  winter  we  were  squeezed  into  the  recess  of  the 
furthest  corner,  among  little  boys,  who  seemed  to  be 
sent  to  school  merely  to  fill  up  the  chinks  between  the 
bigger  boys.  Certainly  we  were  never  sent  for  any 
such  absurd  purpose  as  an  education.  There  were  the 
great  scholars ;  the  school  in  winter  was  for  them,  not 
for  us  piccaninies.  We  were  read  and  spelled  twice  a 
day,  unless  something  happened  to  prevent,  which  did 
happen  about  every  other  day.  For  the  rest  of  the 
time  we  were  busy  in  keeping  still.  And  a  time  we 
always  had  of  it.  Our  shoes  always  would  be  scraping 
on  the  floor,  or  knocking  the  shins  of  urchins  who 
were  also  being  "educated."  All  of  our  little  legs 
together  (poor,  tired,  nervous,  restless  legs,  with  no- 
thing to  do!)  would  fill  up  the  corner  with  such  a 
noise,  that  every  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  the  master 


190  SCHOOL  REMINISCENCE. 


would  bring  down  his  two-foot  hickory  ferule  on  the 
desk  with  a  clap  that  sent  shivers  through  our  hearts 
to  think  how  that  would  have  felt  if  it  had  fallen 
somewhere  else ;  and  then,  with  a  look  that  swept  us 
all  into  utter  extremity  of  stillness,  he  would  cry,  "  Si- 
lence! in  that  corner I"  Stillness  would  last  for  a  few 
minutes ;  but,  little  boys'  memories  are  not  capacious. 
Moreover,  some  of  the  boys  had  great  gifts  of  mischief, 
and  some  of  mirthfulness,  and  some  had  both  together. 
The  consequence  was,  that  just  when  we  were  the  most 
afraid  to  laugh,  we  saw  the  most  comical  things  to  laugh 
at.  Temptations  which  we  could  have  vanquished  with 
a  smile  out  in  the  free  air,  were  irresistible  in  our  little 
corner  where  a  laugh  and  a  stinging  slap  were  very  apt 
to  woo  each  other.  So,  we  would  hold  on,  and  fill  up ; 
and  others  would  hold  on  and  fill  up  too ;  till,  by  and 
by,  the  weakest  would  let  go  a  mere  whiffet  of  a  laugh, 
and,  then,  down  went  all  the  precautions,  and  one  went 
off,  and  another,  and  another,  touching  off  the  others 
like  a  pack  of  fire-crackers !  It  was  in  vain  to  deny  it. 
But,  as  the  process  of  snapping  our  heads  and  pulling 
our  ears  went  on  with  primitive  sobriety,  we  each  in 
turn,  with  tearful  eyes  and  blubbering  lips,  declared 
"we  didn't  mean  to,"  and  that  was  true;  and  that  "we 
wouldn't  do  so  any  more,"  and  that  was  a  fib,  however 
unintentional ;  for  we  never  failed  to  do  just  so  again, 
and  that  about  once  an  hour  all  clay  long. 

Besides  this,  our  principal  business  was  to  shake  and 
shiver  at  the  beginning  of  the  school  for  very  cold; 
and  to  sweat  and  stew  for  the  rest  of  the  time,  before 


SCHOOL  REMINISCENCE. 


191 


the  fervid  glances  of  a  great  box  iron  stove,  red  hot. 
There  was  one  event  of  great  horror  and  two  of  pleas- 
ure; the  first  was  the  act  of  going  to  school,  in  which  is 
to  be  comprised  the  leaving  off  play,  the  face-washing 
and  clothes-inspecting,  the  temporary  play-spell  before 
the  master  came,  the  outcry,  "There  he  is — the  master 
is  coming,"  the  hurly-burly  rush,  and  the  noisy  clatter- 
ing to  our  seats.  The  other  two  events  of  pleasure 
were  the  play-spell  and  the  dismission.  0,  dear !  can 
there  be  any  thing  worse  for  a  lively,  mercurial,  mirth- 
ful, active  little  boy,  than  going  to  a  winter  district- 
school?  Yes.  Going  to«a  summer  district-school! 
There  is  no  comparison.  The  last  is  the  Miltonic 
depth  below  the  deepest  depth. 

A  woman  kept  the  summer  school,  sharp,  precise, 
unsympathetic,  keen  and  untiring.  Of  all  ingenious 
ways  of  fretting  little  boys,  doubtless  her  ways  were 
the  most  expert.  Not  a  tree  was  there  to  shelter  the 
house.  The  sun  beat  down  on  the  shingles  and  clap- 
boards till  the  pine  knots  shed  pitchy  tears,  and  the 
air  was  redolent  of  warm  pine- wood  smell.  The 
benches  were  slabs  with  legs  in  them.  The  desks  were 
slabs  at  an  angle,  cut,  hacked,  scratched,  each  year's 
edition  of  jack-knife  literature  overlaying  its  predeces- 
sor, until  in  our  day  it  already  wore  cuttings  and  car- 
vings two  or  three  inches  deep.  But  if  we  cut  a  morsel, 
or  stuck  in  pins,  or  pinched  off  splinters,  the  little  sharp- 
eyed  mistress  was  on  hand,  and  one  look  of  her  eye  was 
worse  than  a  sliver  in  our  foot,  and  one  nip  of  her  fin- 
gers was  equal  to  a  jab  of  a  pin ; — for  we  had  tried  both. 


192 


SCHOOL  .REMINISCENCE. 


We  envied  the  flies — merry  fellows,  bouncing  about/, 
tasting  that  apple  skin,  patting  away  at  that  crumb  of 
bread;  now  out  the  window,  then  in  again;  on  your 
nose,  on  your  neighbor's  cheek,  off  to  the  very  school- 
ma'am's  lips,  dodging  her  slap,  and  then  letting  off  a 
real  round  and  round  buzz,  up,  down,  this  way,  that 
way,  and  every  way.  O,  we  envied  the  flies  more 
than  any  thing,  except  the  birds.  The  windows  were 
so  high  that  we  could  not  see  the  grassy  meadows ;  but 
we  could  see  the  tops  of  distant  trees,  and  the  far,  deep, 
bounteous  blue  sky.  There  flew  the  robins;  there 
went  the  bluebirds,  and  there  went  we.  We  followed 
that  old  Polyglott,  the  skunk-blackbird,  and  heard  him 
describe  the  way  they  talked  at  the  winding  up  of  the 
Tower  of  Babel.  We  thanked  every  meadow-lark  that 
sung  on,  rejoicing  as  it  flew.  Now  and  then  a  "chip- 
ping-bird"  would  flutter  on  the  very  window-sill,  turn 
its  little  head  sidewise,  and  peer  in  on  the  medley  of 
boys  and  girls.  Long  before  we  knew  that  it  was  in 
Scripture,  we  sighed — O,  that  we  had  the  wings  of  a 
bird — we  would  fly  away  and  be  out  of  this  hateful 
school.  As  for  learning,  the  sum  of  all  that  we  ever 
got  at  a  district-school  would  scarcely  cover  the  first 
ten  letters  of  the  alphabet.  One  good,  kind,  story-tell- 
ing, Bible-rehearsing  aunt  at  home,  with  apples  and 
gingerbread  premiums,  is  worth  all  the  school-ma'ams 
that  ever  stood  by  to  see  poor  little  fellows  roast  in 
those  boy -traps  called  district-schools. 

But  this  was  thirty-five  years  ago.  Doubtless  it  is 
all  changed  long  since  then.    We  mean  inside;  for 


SCHOOL  REMINISCENCE. 


193 


certainly  there  are  but  few  school-houses  that  we  have 
seen  in  New  England  whose  outside  has  much  changed. 
There  is  a  beautiful  house  here  in  Salisbury,  Conn., 
just  on  the  edge  of  the  woods.  It  is  worth  going  miles 
to  see  how  a  school-house  ought  to  look.  But  generally 
the  barrenest  spot  is  chosen,  the  most  utterly  homely 
building  is  erected,  without  a  tree  or  shrub ;  and  there 
those  that  can  do  no  better,  pass  the  pilgrimage  of  their 
childhood  education. 

We  are  prejudiced,  of  course.  Our  views  and  feel- 
ings are  not  to  be  trusted.  They  are  good  for  nothing 
except  to  show  what  an  effect  our  school-days  left  upon 
us.  We  abhor  the  thought  of  a  school.  We  do  not 
go  into  them  if  we  can  avoid  it.  Our  boyhood  expe- 
rience has  pervaded  our  memory  with  such  images  as 
breed  a  private  repugnance  to  district-schools,  which 
we  fear  we  shall  not  lay  aside  until  we  lay  aside  every- 
thing into  the  grave.  We  are  sincerely  glad  that  it  is 
not  so  with  everybody.  There  are  thousands  who  re- 
vert with  pleasure  to  those  days.  We  are  glad  of  it. 
But  we  look  on  such  persons  with  astonishment, 
9 


XIII. 

THE  VALUE  OF  BIRDS. 

Spoestmen,  Beware. — The  last  Legislature  enacted  that  it  shall  not 
be  lawful  in  the  State  of  ISew  Jersey  for  any  person  to  shoot,  or  in 
any  other  manner  to  kill  or  destroy,  except  upon  his  own  premises,  any 
of  the  following  description  of  birds :  the  night  or  mosquito  hawk, 
chimney  swallow,  martin  or  swift,  whippoorwill,  cuckoo,  kingbird  or 
bee  martin,  woodpecker,  claip  or  highhole,  catbird,  wren,  bluebird, 
meadow  lark,  brown  thresher,  dove,  fire-bird  or  summer  redbird, 
hanging  bird,  ground  robin  or  chewink,  boblink  or  rice  bird,  robin, 
Bnow  or  chipping  bird,  sparrow,  Carolina  lit,  warbler,  blackbird, 
bluejay,  and  the  small  owl.  The  penalty  is  five  dollars  for  each 
offence,  or  for  the  destruction  of  the  eggs  of  such  birds. — Tribune. 

What  is  a  bird  good  for?  What  dainty  sentimen- 
talism  has  set  a  stupid  Legislature  at  such  enactments  ? 

Not  so  fast.  Although  we  should  greatly  respect  a 
Legislature  that  had  the  humanity  to  think  of  birds 
among  other  constituent  bipeds,  yet  experience  has 
taught  farmers  and  gardeners  the  economic  value  of 
birds. 

There  are  no  such  indefatigable  entomologists  as 
birds.  Audubon  and  Wilson  never  hunted  for  speci- 
men birds  with  such  perseverance  as  birds  themselves 
exhibit  in  their  researches.  They  depasture  the  air, 
they  penetrate  every  nook  and  corner  of  thicket,  hedge 
and  shrubbery,  they  search  the  bark,  pierce  the  dead 
wood,  glean  the  surface  of  the  soil,  watch  for  the  spade- 
trench,  and  follow  the  furrow  for  worms  and  larvae.  A 


THE  VALUE  OF  BIRDS. 


195 


single  bird  in  one  season  destroys  millions  of  insects  for 
its  own  food  and  for  the  supply  of  its  nest.  No  com- 
putation can  be  made  of  the  insects  which  birds  devour. 
We  do  not  think  of  another  scene  more  inspiriting 
than  the  plowing  season,  in  this  respect.  Bluebirds 
are  in  the  tops  of  trees  practicing  the  scales,  crows  are 
cawing  as  they  lazily  swing  through  the  air  toward 
their  companions  in  the  tops  of  distant  dead  and  dry 
trees ;  robins  and  blackbirds  are  wide  awake,  searching 
every  clod  that  the  plow  turns,  and  venturesome  al- 
most to  the  farmer's  heels.  Even  boys  relent,  and 
seem  touched  by  the  birds'  appeal  to  their  confidence, 
and,  until  small  fruits  come,  spare  the  birds.  BobVlinks 
begin  to  appear — the  buffoon  among  birds,  and  half 
sing  and  half  fizzle.  How  our  young  blood  sparkled 
amid  such  scenes,  we  could  not  tell  why ;  neither  why 
we  cried  without  sorrow  or  laughed  without  mirth,  but 
only  from  a  vague  sympathy  with  that  which  was 
beautiful  and  joyous. 

Were  there  ever  such  neat  scavengers  ?  Were  there 
ever  such  nimble  hunters?  Were  there  ever  such 
adroit  butchers?  No  Grahamitic  scruples  agitate  this 
seed-loving  and  bug-loving  tribe.  They  do  not  show 
their  teeth  to  prove  that  they  were  designed  for  meat 
They  eat  what  they  like,  wipe  their  mouths  on  a  limb, 
return  thanks  in  a  song,  and  wing  away  to  a  quiet 
nook  to  doze  or  meditate,  snug  from  the  hawk  that 
spheres  about  far  up  in  the  ether. 

To  be  sure,  birds,  like  men,  have  a  relish  for  variety. 
There  are  no  better  pomologists.    If  we  believed  in 


196 


THE  VALUE  OF  BIRDS. 


transmigration  we  should  be  sure  that  our  distinguished 
fruit-culturists  could  be  traced  home.  Longworth  was 
a  brown-thresher;  Downing  a  lark,  sometimes  in  the 
dew  and  sometimes  just  below  the  sun ;  Thomas  was  a 
plain  and  sensible  robin ;  junior  Prince  was  a  bobVlink, 
irreverently  called  skunk-blackbird  ;  Ernst  a  dove ; 
Parsons  a  woodpecker ;  Wilder  a  kingbird.  We  could 
put  our  finger,  too,  upon  the  human  blackbird,  wren, 
bluejay,  and  small  owl,  but  prudence  forbids  ;  as  it  also 
does  the  mention  of  a  certain  clerical  mocking-bird 
that  makes  game  of  his  betters ! 

But  we  wander  from  the  point.  We  charge  every 
man  with  positive  dishonesty  who  drives  birds  from  his 
garden  in  fruit-time.  The  fruit  is  theirs  as  well  as 
yours.  They  took  care  of  it  as  much  as  you  did.  If 
they  had  not  eaten  egg,  worm,  and  bug,  your  fruit 
would  have  been  pierced  and  ruined.  They  only  come 
for  wages.  No  honest  man  will  cheat  a  bird  of  his 
spring  and  summer's  work. 


XIV. 


A  ROUGH  PICTURE  FROM  LIFE. 

It  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  conservative  of  the  benevo* 
lent  class.  Inheriting  a  fine  old  mansion,  amid  orchards, 
and  gardens,  and  lawns,  and  surrounded  by  old  trees, 
whose  mighty  arms  waved  joyfully  when  he  was  born, 
and  have  discoursed  noble  music  to  his  ear  ever  since 
— the  happy,  kind,  even-minded  dreamer  dreads  all 
change.  His  nest  is  snug,  and  he  is  afraid  to  lose  a 
single  egg  by  the  hand  of  thievish  innovation.  In  the 
sunny  parlor  he  reads  his  daily  conservative  journal, 
ratifies  its  curses,  and  thinks  he  hates  all  whom  it  stig- 
matizes. His  sides  grow  fat,  his  face  grows  round,  his 
head  grows  bald,  his  heart  grows  mellow  to  all  who 
know  its  sunny  side. 

Meanwhile,  the  schools  must  be  supported — yes, 
schools  are  ancient  institutions,  and  he  patronizes 
schools.  The  academy  must  be  built — and  there  are 
century-old  precedents  for  academies — so  he  approves 
of  them.  All  the  boys  are  exhorted  to  go  to  school, 
and  all  the  maidens  are  there  to  keep  the  boys  out  of 
mischief.  Now  it  will  never  do  to  educate  Yankee 
lads  and  lasses,  if  it  is  a  sin  to  think,  and  if  thinking 
errs  when  it  leads  to  action.  Accordingly,  so  many 
girls  are  growing  up  who,  finding  themselves  able  to 
govern  their  parents,  aspire  to  be  teachers  of  schools ; 
and  so  many  inventive,  thinking  boys  are  brewing 


198  A  ROUGH  PICTURE  FROM  LIFE. 

schemes  and  improvements,  that,  in  a  half-score  of 
years,  our  kind  old  conservative  finds  much  mysterious 
mischief  abroad.  Where  it  could  have  come  from,  he 
can  not  imagine.  There  are  new  fashions  and  new 
architecture,  new  halls  and  new  churches,  new  minis- 
ters and  new  lawyers. 

Meanwhile,  the  neighboring  valley,  child  of  a  moun- 
tain-gorge a  little  back,  and  borrowing  its  brook,  has 
shown  signs  of  evil.  A  dam  has  raised  the  brook  to 
an  ominous  pond,  which  trout  scorn  and  frogs  love. 
Gaunt  mills  go  up,  shanties  abound,  Irish  fairies  are 
digging  under  ground  and  over  ground,  in  the  water 
and  out  of  the  water,  powder  drilled  into  rocks  is  split- 
ting them  open  with  surprise.  Alas !  there  is  no  more 
quiet  for  our  kind  old  heart;  his  walks  are  circum- 
scribed, his  influence  wanes,  his  prejudices  grow,  his 
quails  and  his  partridges,  his  spring  blackbirds,  his 
bluebirds  and  robins,  are  driven  into  close  quarters  or 
utterly  dispersed. 

Ten  thousand  daily  feelings  vex  his  soul.  The  fac- 
tory-village eats  up  his  quiet.  Its  roughrfess,  its  va- 
rious impertinences,  its  night  and  day  clatter,  all  offend 
him.  He  retreats  more  desperately  to  his  paper,  and 
holds  back  with  all  his  might. 

But  time  has  a  temptation  for  him  that  he  did  not 
estimate.  His  own  grounds  are  wanted.  Through 
that  exquisite  dell  which  skirts  along  the  northern 
side  of  his  estates,  where  he  has  wandered,  book  in 
hand,  a  thousand  times,  monarch  of  squirrels,  bluejays 
and  partridges,  his  only  companions  and  subjects — are 


A  ROUGH  PICTURE  FROM  LIFE. 


199 


seen  peering  and  spying  those  execrable  men  that  turn 
the  world  upsxde  down,  civil  engineers  and  most  uncivil 
speculators.  Alas!  the  plague  has  broken  out.  His 
ground  is  wanted — is  taken — is  defiled — is  daily  smoked 
by  the  passage  of  that  modern  thunder-dragon,  drag- 
ging its  long  tail  of  cars.  A  jury  of  his  own  towns- 
men, after  gravely  estimating  the  case  ancl  considering 
his  demand  for  ten  thousand  dollars  damages,  frankly 
admit  the  claim,  but  offset  it  with  a  judgment  that  his 
property  is  increased  in  value  at  least  twenty  thousand. 
But  that  will  never  pay  for  his  robins,  his  quails,  his 
autumnal  quiet,  his  evening  strolls  and  his  trout  brook. 
They  have  spoiled  one  of  God's  grandest  pictures  by 
slashing  it  with  a  railroad,  but  declare  that  the  frame 
has  been  enough  improved  to  make  up  for  the  picture. 

Who  that  has  a  spark  of  nature  or  the  love  of  nature 
in  him,  would  not  be  a  conservative  ?  After  this  we 
quite  enjoy  to  hear  him  drub  the  world  in  general  and 
all  modern  improvements  in  particular.  Nevertheless 
his  sturdy  son,  stealing  upon  paternal  pride,  and  very 
quietly  and  reverently  governing  his  governor,  has  per- 
suaded the  sale  of  a  few  lots.  You  know  the  rest.  A 
man  may,  peradventure,  withstand  an  Eve  in  Paradise; 
an  Abdiel  may  be  found;  but  a  man  proof  against 
speculations  in  town  lots,  which  to-day  are  worth  a 
hundred  dollars  and  to-morrow  a  thousand,  you  may 
search  the  earth  through  and  you  shall  not  find. 

And  so  this  place  is  gone.  The  old  mansion,  driven 
up  more  sharply  every  year,  has  lost  its  orchard,  has 
lost  its  meadows,  has  lost  that  long  slope,  has  a  rail 


200  A  ROUGH  PICTURE  FROM  LIFE. 

fence  crooking  like  a  serpent  through  the  middle  of  its 
gardens,  with  a  hundred  Irish  imps  whooping  in  and 
out  of  shanties  on  the  other  side,  where  the  old  mul- 
berry tree  stood  and  the  best  currant  bushes  grew  that 
ever  hung  with  fruit  like  drops  of  blood.  At  last,  the 
poor  stately  old  house,  standing  askew  by  reason  of 
the  streets  that  have  cut  in  on  every  side,  goes,  like  its 
master,  to  ruin. 

For  such  conservatives  we  have  a  genuine  sympathy. 
There  is  something  very  natural  in  the  whole  process  j 
and  the  appeal  is  rather  to  our  pity  than  our  censure. 


A  RIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON". 

It  is  difficult  to  choose  between  the  scenery  of  the 
ocean  side  and  inland  scenery,  if  one  were  to  have  the 
liberty  of  but  one  of  them.  Both  of  them  take  hold  of 
the  imagination  with  great  power ;  both  are  stimulating 
and  yet  soothing.  But  they  act  uoon  the  mind  in  very 
different  ways. 

The  power  of  the  mind  to  animate  natural  objects 
with  its  own  emotions,  and  gradually  to  clothe  external 
objects  with  the  attributes  and  experiences  of  the  soul, 
is  well  known.  The  place  where  any  event  in  our  his- 
tory has  occurred  becomes  a  memorial  of  the  feelings 
which  that  event  excited  in  us.  The  walk  which  for 
years  our  feet  have  trod  in  hours  of  meditation,  is  no 
longer  a  dry  path,  half  leaf-covered,  obscure  among  the 
underbrush,  or  sinuous  along  the  summit  of  the  over- 
looking  bluff.  It  has  become  intrusted  with  our  deep- 
est sensations.  It  speaks  to  uSj  and  we  talk  with  it. 
It  is  a  journal  of  our  gradual  experiences.  A  rock, 
under  whose  sides  we  have  been  wont  to  commune 
with  God,  and  dream  of  the  future,  can  never  assume 
a  merry  face  or  an  irreverent  demeanor.  The  home- 
trees,  under  which  we  sit  with  daily  friends,  become 
social  and  familiar ;  those  which  our  solitude  seeks  out, 
and  under  which  we  take  refuge  from  men,  whoso 
whispering  boughs  charm  our  cares,  or  whose  silence 
9* 


202  A  RIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON. 

descends  from  far-up  branches,  to  quiet  our  fears  or 
sorrows — become  sacred  companions.  Thus,  too,  cer- 
tain places — bends  in  a  river,  nooks  Tn  a  mountain  side, 
clefts  in  rocks,  sequestered  dells — have  their  imputed 
life.  "Whenever  we  come  back  to  these  places  it  is  as 
when  one  reads  old  letters,  or  a  journal  of  old  experi- 
ences, or  meets  old  friends,  that  bring  thronging  back 
with  them  innumerable  memories  and  renewed  sensa- 
tions of  pleasure  or  sadness. 

The  ocean  can  not  produce  such  effects.  Whatever 
may  be  the  sources  of  its  power,  it  does  not  depend 
upon  associafion.  The  ocean  has  no  permanent  objects. 
The  waves  of  yesterday  are  gone  to-day ;  and  the  calm 
of  to-day  will  be  tumultuous  to-morrow.  The  very 
effect  of  the  sea,  in  part,  depends  upon  its  exceeding 
changeableness.  Upon  what  can  we  hang  our  associa- 
tions ?  The  line  of  coast  supplies  a  partial  resource, 
but  the  sea  none.  It  has  no  nooks,  or  dells,  or  caves, 
or  overhanging  rocks,  which,  once  formed,  abide  for 
ever.    It  has  no  perpetual  boughs  or  enduring  forests. 

0 

Its  mountains  are  liquid,  and  flow  down  in  the  very 
same  moment  that  they  lift  themselves  up.  The  wide 
and  whole  sea,  as  a  great  One,  to  be  sure,  comes  to  us 
always  the  same ;  but  its  individual  features  are  always 
strangers.  Its  waves  are  always  new  waves;  its  rip- 
ples are  always  formed  before  us;  its  broad  and  un- 
crested  undulations  are  fresh  and  momently  produced. 
If  we  go  down  to  the  shore  to  mourn  for  those  who 
shall  not  come  forth  from  the  deep  till  the  archangel's 
trump  shall  bring  forth  its  dead,  though  we  shed 


A  RIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON 


.208 


daily  tears  for  weary  months,  they  treasure  up  no  asso- 
ciations in  the  rolling  waters  or  bright-glancing  calms. 
If  the  place  becomes  sacred,  it  is  the  shore,  the  sur- 
rounding rocks  or  sand-hills,  and  not  the  ever-born, 
ever-dying  waves. 

The  operation  of  these  causes  extends  to  level  coun- 
try scenery.  The  mind  seldom  wishes  to  trust  much 
to  a  level  and  insipid  country.  The  inhabitants  •  of 
such  plains  form  but  feeble  local  attachments.  But 
those  who  are  mountain-born  become  so  intensely 
attached  to  their  familiar  places,  that  when  removed 
from  them,  home-sickness  becomes  a  disease,  and  preys 
upon  the  frame  like  a  fever  or  a  consumption. 

The  scenery  of  the  sea  addresses  itself  to  a  different 
part  of  our  being.  It  speaks  more  to  the  imagination 
than  to  the  affections,  giving  fewer  objects  for  analysis 
or  examination ;  for  ever  throwing  off  the  eye  by  revo- 
.  lutions  of  form  and  changeableness,  and  refusing  to 
become  familiar  in  those  patient  and  gentle  ways  of 
companionship  that  venerable  forests  and  benignant 
mountains  assume.  The  sea  is  not  a  lover  and  friend, 
but  an  inspirer  and  an  austere  teacher.  Trees  soothe 
us  and  comfort  us  by  sympathy.  We  still  stand  in  our 
sorrows,  or  yearnings,  or  sadness ;  but  they  speak  to  us 
with  ten  thousand  airy  voices  or  melodious  whisper- 
ings, and,  mingling  better  thoughts  and  faith  with  our 
fretful  experience,  they  sweeten  the  heart  without 
washing  away  its  thoughts  with  utter  forgetfulness. 

But  the  sea  forces  life  away  from  us.  We  stand 
upon  its  shore  as  if  a  new  life  were  opening  xfpon  us. 


204 


A  RIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON. 


and  we  were  in  the  act  of  forgetting  the  things  that  are 
behind,  and  reaching  forth  unto  those  which  are  before 
and  beyond.  The  unobstructed  distance,  the  far  hori- 
zon line,  on  which  the  eye  only  stops,  but  over  which 
the  imagination  bounds,  and  then  first  perceives  plainly 
where  the  eye  grows  dim;  the  restless  change,  the 
sense  of  endless  creative  power,  the  daily  and  some- 
times hourly  change  of  countenance,  that  makes  you 
think  that  the  ocean  revolves  deep  experiences  in  its 
bosom,  and  reveals  distinctly  upon  its  mutable  face 
expressions  of  its  peace,  or  sorrow,  or  joy,  or  struggle 
and  rage,  or  victory  and  joyfulness; — these  are  pheno- 
mena that  excite  us,  and  carry  us  away  from  life,  away 
from  hackneyed  experiences.  When  we  retire  from 
the  seaside  we  come  back  to  life  as  if  from  a  voyage, 
and  familiar  things  have  grown  strange. 

A  frequent  and  favorite  ride,  with  us,  is  to  Fort 
Hamilton.  It  lies,  in  part,  upon  the  Long  Island  side 
of  New  York  Bay  and  the  Narrows,  and  terminates  a 
little  beyond  the  Fort,  where,  between  the  dim  sand- 
points  of  Coney  Island  on  the  left,  and  the  Hook  on 
the  right,  the  ocean  stretches  out  itself. 

It  is  an  autumnal  day ;  the  leaves  are  changed,  but 
not  fallen.  The  air  is  mild  and  genial.  The  carriage 
stands  at  the  door ;  the  mother  is  ready,  the  friends  are 
waiting,  and  Charley  paws  impatiently.  Away  we  go 
rattling  over  the  noisy  pavement,  enduring  rather  than 
enjoying,  till  we  reach  the  toll-gate.  This  passed,  the 
fresh  sea-smell  comes  across  the  Bay,  and  we  look  out 
upon  heaps  of  seaweed  on  our  right,  odorous  in  its  pe- 


A  EIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON. 


205 


culiar  and  not  disagreeable  way.  The  bay  is  specked 
with  sails.  Staten  Island  stands  boldly  up  on  the  far 
side,  a  noble  frame  to  so  beautiful  a  picture  as  New 
York  Bay. 

The  wheels  roll  softly  over  the  smooth  causeway  till 
we  enter  the  street  of  Gowanus,  when  again  we  quake 
and  shake  for  a  long  mile  over  execrable  pavements, 
poorly  laid  at  first,  and  through  daily  use,  grown  daily 
worse.  For,  O  my  friends,  this  is  Death's  highway. 
Here,  through  almost  every  hour  of  the  day,  he  holds 
his  black  processions  to  Greenwood.  And  now  we 
reach  the  corner  which  leads  to  the  Funeral  Gate ;  this 
is  the  corner  guarded  with  oysters,  liquor  and  cakes, 
on  one  side,  and  a  thriving  marble-cutting,  monument- 
making  business,  on  the  other.  It  is  quite  American. 
One  reflects  with  peculiar  emotions  upon  these  happy 
national  conjunctions  of  dissipation,  commerce,  and 
death-rest.  But,  after  all,  is  not  this  an  unconscious 
type  of  life  ?  Is  there  not  every  day,  if  we  would  see 
it,  just  as  terrible  a  mingling  of  things  sacred  and  pro- 
fane ?  And  yet  it  is  painful  always  and  increasingly, 
that  there  is  not  in  the  public  mind  enough  of  taste, 
or  of  sentiment,  or  of  superstition,  to  keep  the  sor- 
did hucksters  from  shoving  their  bar  and  booth  up  to 
the  very  cheeks  of  death  and  the  grave  I  Or,  must  the 
last  sounds  that  smite  the  dead  man's  coffin  bear  wit- 
ness of  the  spirit  of  that  great,  sordid  den  from  which 
he  has  departed  and  is  departing? 

Cut  away,  then,  mason,  as  the  mother  follows  her 
babe  to  its  peaceful  bed ;  tempt  her  with  your  marble 


206 


A  BIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON. 


cherubs,  set  your  lambs  in  inviting  array,  and  coax  her 
sorrow  to  buy  an  angel,  or  a  marble  mourner !  How 
grateful  to  a  sorrowful  heart  to  see  that  you  have  been 
expecting  him,  that  you  have  reckoned  that  it  would 
come  to  this  soon !  You  are  all  ready  for  a  bargain, 
just  as  the  undertaker  was  before  you.  The  undertaker 
has  his  ostentatious  coffins,  his  show-windows,  brilliant 
with  decorated  coffins,  where  a  man  is  tempted  to  stop 
and  examine  the  latest  fashion  of  a  coffin — a  perfect 
gem  of  a  thing.  One  can  refresh  himself  at  a  hundred 
places  in  the  city  with  such  agreeable  sights,  and  have 
explanations  thrown  in  for  nothing.  If  your  vanity  is 
susceptible,  it  will  be  gratifying  to  know  that  a  connois- 
seur of  coffins  thinks  and  assures  you  that  you  would 
make  one  of  the  most  genteel  corpses.  Pah !  the  clink 
of  hammers  on  marble  is  harsh  discord.  This  money- 
making  out  of  sorrow  and  death ;  this  driving  a  trade 
upon  the  occasions  of  others'  misery,  over  griefs  that 
dissolve  the  very  heart,  how  it  adds  an  element  of 
horror  to  all  the  other  pangs  of  bereavement ! 

Neither  will  we  turn  in  at  the  second  entrance, 
which  is  for  company  who  come  to  gaze.  It  is 
Death's  ground.  All  over  it  he  has  set  up  his  ban- 
ners of  Victory.  What  has  the  heart  to  do  there  ? 
Why  should  we  wish  to  see  the  weakness,  the  dis- 
honor of  our  mortal  bodies?  Was  it  not  enough  to 
pray  with  vain  anguish  for  their  life ;  to  struggle  with 
both  oars  against  the  stream  that  was  sweeping  them 
down  toward  death,  and  be  yet  borne  downward? 
Was  not  the  darkness,  the  stillness,  the  burden  of  lone- 


A  RIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILION.  207 

someness,  the  changed  aspect  of  men  and  the  world,  the 
thrusting  in  upon  us  by  invisible  power  of  huge  and 
dark  distresses,  enough?  Why  should  we  go  in  to 
weep  afresh  ?  to  wish  that  we  were  dead  ?  to  hear  the 
trees  sigh,  and  the  song  of  birds  changed,  so  that  their 
very  glee  is  sad  to  the  ear  ?  How  morbid  is  life  when 
the  light  is  black,  and  flowers  are  mockers,  and  leaves 
are  hoarse,  and  birds  and  every  living  thing  and  the 
whole  atmosphere  are  but  a  brooding  of  sorrow !  Then 
let  us  hasten  past  the  great  bosom  of  Greenwood  and 
leave  her  alone  to  nurse  the  dead. 

"We  are*for  other  scenes ;  for  now  we  come  to  a  little 
rustic  church  on  the  right,  around  which  we  turn  and 
hasten  toward  the  water.  The  way  is  narrow,  the  road 
smooth,  the  sides  hedged  with  trees  and  bushes,  and 
many  evergreens  intermixed.  We  emerge.  There  lies 
the  narrowing  Bay.  Up  through  the  Narrows  come 
the  weary  ships  that  have  struggled  bravely  with  the 
ocean,  and  are  come  home  to  rest.  They  look  grateful. 
Their  sails  are  loosely  furled.  They  submit  themselves 
to  steam-tugs  with  a  resigned  air,  as  if  it  was  fit,  after 
bo  great  a  voyage,  that  they  should  rest  from  toil. 
Down  come  ships  from  the  city,  some  with  sails  and 
some  towed,  but  all  eager,  fresh  painted,  vigorous  in 
*  aspect,  and  ready  to  pitch  into  storm  and  spray.  Little 
boats  skip  about  like  insects.  Sloops  and  schooners, 
with  snow-white  sails,  are  busying  themselves  with  just 
as  much  self-respect  and  look  of  usefulness  as  if  they 
had  the  tunnage  of  the  hugest  ship ! 

As  we  draw  near  the  Fort,  the  lower  bay  opens. 


208 


A  RIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON". 


Shadows  divide  the  light  into  sections  along  the  sur- 
face. The  whole  expanse  is  full  of  little  undulations 
that  quiver  and  gleam,  as  if  from  beneath  the  water 
myriads  of  fire-fish  flashed  their  light.  But  all  these 
things  we  see  the  more  thoroughly  when  we  return. 

Now  the  eye  searches  the  horizon.  There  are  the 
faint  ships  dying  out  of  sight,  outward  bound.  That 
speck  yonder,  far  in  the  horizon,  is  not  a  ship — but  a 
mote  such  as  dances  before  the  eye  strained  to  penetrate 
an  empty  distance.  Yet  a  little  while,  and  it  has  the 
semblance  of  a  cloud.  It  gathers  substance  before  you, 
and,  ere  long,  swells  its  airy  proportions  into  the  un- 
doubted form  of  a  ship  carrying  every  bit  of  sail  that 
can  be  made  to  cling  to  the  spars ! 

We  turn  the  carriage  from  the  road ;  we  grow  silent 
and  thoughtful;  we  gaze  and  think.  We  fly  away 
from  the  eye,  and  see  the  world  beyond  the  horizon ; 
we  hover  over  ships  upon  the  equator,  we  outrun  the 
Indiaman,  and  double  the  Horn ;  we  dart  away  west- 
ward and  overlook  that  garden  of  islands,  the  Pacific ! 
If  one  speaks,  the  charm  breaks,  the  fairies  fly,  the 
vision  is  gone,  and  we  are  back  again !  Now  you  may 
see  that  noblest  of  all  ocean  sights,  for  beauty,  a  full- 
rigged  ship  under  full  sail !  A  man  that  can  look  upon 
that  and  feel  nothing  stir  within  him,  no  glow,  or  , 
imagination,  or  sense  of  beauty,  may  be  sure  that  some- 
thing important  was  left  out  in  his  making. 

If  you  come  down  here  a  hundred  times,  it  is  never 
twice  alike.  The  diversity  is  endless.  Its  population 
of  sails  changes;  every  veering  of  the  wind,  every 


A  RIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON. 


209 


mood  of  the  atmosphere,  every  mutation  of  clouds, 
every  changing  hour  of  the  sun,  give  new  aspects.  It 
arouses  in  you  an  idea  of  infinity.  As  you  look,  the 
serene  ocean  of  ether  and  the  tremulous  ocean  of  water, 
both  and  alike,  give  inspirations.  You  forget ;  you  let 
go  of  care;  you  drop  sorrows;  all  threads  of  thought 
snap  in  the  loom,  and  the  shuttle  carries  a  new  yarn, 
and  the  fabric  stretches  out  a  new  pattern.  God's  truths, 
that  came  near  to  fading  out  among  the  clang  of  men 
and  the  fictions  of  the  real,  gain  form  and  power.  The 
Invisible  grows  more  real  than  the  substantial.  Nothing 
seems  so  wild  and  extravagant  as  human  life ;  nothing 
so  sweet  as  flying  away  from  it.  The  soul  hears  itself 
called  from  the  other  world.  Nor  does  it  require  that 
supremest  architect,  the  imagination,  to  fashion  forth  the 
illustrious  gate  and  the  blessed  City ; — not,  if  your  ride 
be  at  evening,  and  the  sun  sets  enthroned  among  high- 
piled  and  multitudinous  clouds.  Then  the  eye  beholds 
things  unutterable  to  the  tongue. 

How  restful  is  all  this  I  Irritableness  and  impatience 
are  gone.  The  woes  and  frets  of  life  are  not  then  hard 
to  be  borne.  To  live  for  the  things  which  occupy  God ; 
to  lift  up  our  fellow-men,  through  all  the  round  of 
human  infirmities ;  to  build  the  substantial  foundations 
of  life,  to  enrich  the  conditions  of  society,  to  inspire 
better  thoughts,  to  fashion  a  noble  character,  to  stand- 
with  Gospel  trumpet  and  banner,  and  see  flocking 
toward  it  troops  of  regenerated  men,  who,  ere  long, 
shall  throng  about  our  Lord,  the  Christ  of  God ; — these 
seem,  then,  neither  unsubstantial  ambitions  nor  imprac- 
ticable works.    At  other  times,  among  giddy  excite- 


210  '       A  HIDE  TO  FORT  HAMILTON. 

merits,  nothing  seems  so  unsubstantial  and  visionary  as 
the  impress  of  your  labor  upon  human  hearts.  But 
now,  and  here,  nothing  seems  so  real  as  that  which 
God  gives  the  soul  power  to  do  upon  the  soul. 

The  tide  that  came  down  with  us  is  returning.  Ships 
that  dashed  out  toward  the  sea  are  slowly  coming  up 
to  their  anchor,  and  swinging  around  toward  the  city. 
Let  us  return,  for  we  have  flowers  to  gather  along  the 
banks,  and  crimson  leaves,  and  branches  of  cedar  clus- 
tered full  of  pale  blue  berries,  and  creeping  strawberry 
vines.  We  must  clamber  down,  too,  to  the  rocks,  and 
let  the  water  lick  our  feet;  and  gather  a  few  choice 
pebbles,  which  our  children,  at  least,  will  think  pretty. 

Slowly,  and  reluctantly,  we  travel  homeward.  We 
approach  that  sweet  and  restful  ground  of  Greenwood. 
We  fain  now  would  draw  near  and  enter  in.  It  is  no 
longer  repugnant.  We  have  sacred  rights  there,  and 
anticipations  of  our  own  bodies  slumbering  there.  That 
which  we  have  committed  in  its  mortal  part  to  the 
earth,  God  will  guard  with  sacred  vigilance  till  the 
Time  comes.  All  the  trees,  rustling  their  leaves,  are 
prophesying  to  our  ears  of  the  trees  of  life ;  and  all  the 
birds  and  flowers  are  witnesses  of  God's  guardianship. 
" Shall  not  He,  who  careth  for  us,  care  for  your  chil- 
dren, which  were,  and  are,  his  own  children  ?"  they  say. 
u  Yea,"  our  hearts  respond;  "God  hath  them.  No 
black  wolf  of  Death  shall  break  into  that  fold  to  ravish 
them  again.  God  shall  keep  them  till  our  coming." 
And  with  faith  and  hope,  and  serene  content,  we  wend 
our  way  back  to  life  and  to  work,  now  uot  burdensome, 
or  hopeless. 


XVI. 


SIGHTS  FROM  MY  WINDOW. 

Upon" what  the  window  opens — whether  upon  a  nar- 
row, paved  street  of  red  houses,  a  back  yard,  a  land- 
scape, or  upon  such  a  noble  sheet  o£  water  as  always 
awaits  my  eyes  from  my  rear  windows — will  make  a 
great  difference  in  the  thoughts  which  spring  up.  It  is 
a  sad  thing  to  look  upon  the  life  of  the  street  in  a  city. 
The  poor,  the  worse  than  poor,  the  degraded;  unquiet 
faces  of  toiling  women;  ragged  children;  the  feeble 
valetudinarian ; — all  these  are  human  beings  as  much 
as  the  hearty,  the  prosperous,  the  gay  and  sanguine 
throng  among  whom  they  mix.  Health  has  its  near 
contrast ;  poverty  is  the  shadow  of  wealth ;  and  happi- 
ness and  gayety  are  only  golden  spots  upon  toil  and 
trouble — like  sunbeams  that  reach  through  the  gloom 
of  thick  forests,  and  checker  the  ground  with  unaccus- 
tomed light. 

The  problem  of  life  and  earthly  destiny  are  painful, 
and  draw  out  the  weary  thoughts  through  many  a  maze 
of  questionings,  from  which  they  return  without  a 
sheaf,  or  a  flower,  and  more  in  doubt  than  ever.  I  do 
not  love  the  front  windows. 

But  there  lies  New  York  Bay,  spread  wide  abroad 
from  my  back  windows.  I  sit  in  my  window,  and  my 
thoughts  fly  over  and  bathe  in  the  forever  changing 
water,  just  as  I  daily  see  the  gulls  dip  down  into  it  and 
come  up  unwet.    I  walk  on  it,  I  hover  over  it ;  I  go  all 


212 


SIGHTS  FROM  MY  WINDOW. 


about  its  rim — beginning  with  the  far  Jersey  shore, 
right  across  the  Battery  down  to  Staten  Island,  and 
round  again  to  my  window.  I  have  great  times  with 
those  blue  hills  in  the  distance.  They  are  moody  fel- 
lows. Sometimes  they  sulk,  and  darken  themselves, 
and  hide  in  a  smoky-obscure,  so  that  whether  they  be 
clouds,  or  mountains,  or  only  a  forest,  you  can  scarcely 
tell.  Peradventure,  the  very  next  day  they  have  dusted 
themselves,  and  swept  down  all  the  films,  and  stand 
right  up  to  your  eye,  frank,  apparent,  and  not  ashamed 
of  your  gaze.  Always,  the  first  thing  is  to  see  what 
the  hills  are  about. 

To  see  the  sun  go  down  over  those  hills  is  a  sight  to 
make  one's  soul  cry  out  to  God !  What  else  on  earth 
is  done  as  the  sun  performs  his  work  ?  His  highway 
is  without  an  obstruction.  Where  grow  the  vines,  0 
Vintner,  from  which  stars  hang  and  from  whence  light 
is  pressed  ?  He  fills  the  whole  heavens  with  light  from 
his  clusters  as  if  it  were  a  goblet.  He  casts  forth  his 
brightness  upon  the  earth  as  if  he  were  sowing  it  with 
seed,  and  spreading  it  double-handed,  profuse,  inexhaus- 
tible. In  the  morning  he  sends  sheaves  of  light,  as 
first-fruits  of  his  coming,  long  before  the  sun-rising,  and 
on  retiring  he  leaves  his  way  full  of  fruits  for  the  even- 
ing to  glean.  Stars  that  come  timidly  out  to  see  what 
he  does,  catch  the  inspiration,  and  themselves  grow 
good  and  kind,  sending  forth  a  blessing  to  all  that  look 
for  their  coming. 

Those  blue  hills  know  all  these  things,  and  gambol 
in  the  solar  flood  as  dolphins  in  the  deep — flushed  with 


SIGHTS  FROM  MY  WINDOW, 


213 


as  many  fabulous  colors  as  they.  Before  the  sun  goes 
down,  you  can  hardly  look  at  them,  as  the  hazy  atmos- 
phere, struck  through  with  intense  gold,  flames  about 
them,  and  only  lets  them  be  seen  dimly  as  if  standing 
in  a  blazing  furnace. 

But  they  are  not  harmed.  For  when  the  sun  gets 
behind  them,  they  stand  forth  against  the  sky,  large, 
full,  bold,  and  unconsumed.  They  are  the  last  sights 
that  die  out  of  the  heavens  as  night  deepens  and  darkens. 

Such  sights  as  these  do  not  rest  in  the  eye  alone.  They 
enter  the  soul.  They  arouse  thoughts  that  heal  heart- 
sickness.  Even  before  the  light  forsakes  the  horizon, 
you  are  already  cleansed  of  life's  daily  grime  and  dust. 
That  great  round  horizon ! — it  is  whatever  your  imagi- 
nation requires  it  to  be.  It  is  a  zone  belting  the  earth. 
Or  it  is  a  lucid  rampart,  a  battlement  of  transparent 
stones.  Or  it  is  an  ocean  full  of  purple  islands,  whose 
near  waters  are  crimson,  but  take  orange  hues  as  they 
recede,  then  sapphire,  amid  white  and  gray,  and  are 
carried  up  toward  the  vault  with  spangled  blue  and 
black.  Upon  such  a  ground  as  this  Nature  sets  up  and 
takes  down  her  temple  of  clouds  with  wondrously  facile 
architecture.  There  is  no  footstep  left  along  that  hori- 
zon, and  no  visible  hand.  But  can  any  one  look  and 
not  know  that  there  is  an  enshrined  spirit  there  ?  Is  it 
not  from  out  of  such  passes  as  these  that  angels  come 
to  guard  our  night  watch  ?  From  those  cliffs  are  there 
uo  slumberless  eyes  that  gaze  after  us  ?  Behind  them 
dwell  the  unnumbered  dead.  Death?  ^Translated  into 
the  heavenly  tongue,  that  word  means  Life  I 


214 


SIGHTS  FKOM  MY  WINDOW. 


Therefore  there  are  some  hours  in  which  we  feel 
called  to  pierce  these  outguards  of  heaven,  and  see  that 
City  beyond,  from  which  the  sun  himself  borrows  his 
light.  For,  the  moon  borrows  of  a  greater  borrower — 
she,  of  the  sun,  and  the  sun  of  God !  Why  should  we 
stand  upon  this  side  the  entrance,  falling  down,  like 
poor  Mercy  in  Pilgrim's  Progress,  before  the  gate? 
Thought  may  enter,  faith  does  :  but  the  body,  like  an 
anchor,  sticks  fast  to  the  earth,  and  brings  back  again 
the  reluctant  soul  to  her  moorings. 

Ten  thousand  stars  stand  meekly  now  in  the  heavens. 
Ten  thousand  sparkling  stars  are  lit  from  beneath  and 
rock  themselves  silently  in  the  trembling  waters.  Yon- 
der, too,  lies  that  great  city  with  a  thousand  shining 
eyes,  couched  down,  but  always  watchjng,  always  mur- 
muring, night  and  day,  like  some  huge,  muttering  be- 
hemoth, waiting  for  its  prey  in  the  reeds  by  the  sea- 
shore. 

One  who  had  lived  within  sound  of  the  surf  upon 
Long  Island  south  shore,  would  think,  if  he  sat  for  the 
first  time  by  my  window,  in  the  night,  and  heard  the 
dull,  low,  muffled  roar  of  the  city,  that  he  was  close 
upon  the  ocean.  If  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  can  imagine  in 
this  sound  the  sullen  plunge  of  Niagara  as  it  came 
through  the  night-air  to  my  room  in  the  hotel.  Nor 
does  the  resemblance  cease  with  the  sound.  It  is  the 
united  roll  of  single  wheels,  crushing  and  jarring 
through  all  the  streets  of  the  vast  city,  that  form  this 
bass;  just  as  itjs  but  the  singing  of  single  drops  in  the 
choir  of  waves  ^hat  makes  the  thunder  of  the  ocean. 


SIGHTS  FROM  MY  WINDOW. 


215 


Morning,  noon,  night  and  midnight,  you  have  still 
this  continuous  roar ;  distant  and  soft  when  the  wind 
is  from  the  east;  near,  and  rushing  right  toward  you, 
when  the  winds  are  from  the  west.  But  there  is  a  rest 
even  for  New  York.  From  midnight  of  Saturday  till 
three  o'clock  of  Monday  morning,  the  Sabbath  charms 
and  hallows  the  air.  The  city  sleeps  like  a  laboring 
man  after  his  toil.  It  is  very  impressive  to  stand  upon 
a  radiant  Sabbath  morning  and  feel  the  hush  and  soli- 
tude of  a  great  motionless  city !  Silence  always  speaks 
of  God.  The  gilded  cross  on  the  spire  of  Trinity, 
catching  the  earliest  glow,  shines  like  a  star,  as  if,  like 
that  of  Bethlehem,  it  would  lead  men  to  where  the 
Saviour  dwelt. 

But,  on  other  days,  nothing  can  quiet  the  great  voice 
of  the  city.  All  day  and  all  night  it  sounds  on.  It  is 
the  cry  of  grief,  the  hearty  shout  of  labor,  laughter, 
rage  and  yells,  sighs  and  whisperings,  the  tramp  of 
feet,  the  clang  of  bells,  the  roar  of  wheels,  all  mingled 
into  one  deep  vast  sound,  in  which  single  sounds  are 
lost,  like  so  many  drops  in  the  ocean. 

Then,  there  are  the  deep,  measured  strokes  of  the 
ponderous  fire-bell,  answered  and  echoed  from  bell  to 
bell,  all  over  the  city.  Now  and  then  a  beam  of  light 
shoots  up  upon  the  sky,  and  the  city  glows  in  its  con- 
flagration. Usually,  fires  would  come  and  go  unknown 
except  to  lookers  on,  were  it  not  for  the  bells.  They 
are  smothered  before  they  can  break  out.  And  all  that 
the  bell  tells  you  is  that,  somewhere,  in  Jihat  great  som- 
ber space,  an  army  of  men  are  fighting  with  flames 


216  SIGHTS  FROM  MY  WINDOW. 

Then  the  bell  ceases,  and  you  know  that  the  flame  is 
quenched,  but  the  eye  has  seen  nothing. 

One  sits  at  night  and  looks  out  upon  that  mysterious 
space,  marked  to  the  eye  only  by  lights,  gleaming 
singly,  or  in  files,  and  imagines  what  scenes  are  trans- 
piring before  him.  Should  I  pierce  to  that  distant 
lamp,  I  should  land  in  a  wedding  group — for  it  shines 
from  a  joyful  mansion  I  Should  I  overleap  that  one, 
and  go  on  to  the  chamber  from  which  the  next  shines, 
there  a  child  is  dying,  a  mother  is  wailing.  Should  I 
strike  through  the  shell  to  the  living  kernel,  in  one 
place,  crimes  would  spring  up  disclosed ;  another  line 
would  reveal  vices  of  unimagined  grossness.  I  say  to 
myself,  as  I  look  forth : — there,  a  mother  sings  her  child 
to  sleep ;  there,  a  virgin  draws  angels  to  her  prayers ; 
there,  a  wife  waits  for  footsteps,  which  once  were  music, 
but  which  ere  long  will  tread  down  her  joys  like 
trampled  flowers ;  there,  sorrow  and  want  and  despair 
work ;  there,  the  poor  and  failing  seamstress  draws  the 
thread  whose  breaking  will  drop  her  into  hopeless 
shame.  In  that  great  shadow  are  now  working  griefs 
and  shames  and  joys,  crimes  and  cruelties,  virtues  and 
secret  heroism.  Yonder  is  patience,  and  faith,  and  hope ; 
there  are  laughing  faces,  frivolous  hearts,  tearless  joys. 
There,  too,  are  devout  hearts,  deep  meditations,  holy 
aspirations.  Good  and  evil  angels  fly  athwart  that  rack 
of  smoke  and  vapor  on  errands  of  grace  or  mischief. 
Up  through  that  pathless  air  are  passing  every  hour 
scores  of  departing  souls.  And  yet,  I  gaze  upon  the 
certainty  and  perceive  nothing!    I  know,  too,  that 


SIGHTS  FKOM  MY  WINDOW.  217 

* 

there  are  in  the  depths  of  yonder  obscure  city  sharp 
outcries,  eager  implorations,  piercing  shrieks,  life-strug- 
gles ; — but  I  hear  not  a  lisp  of  them !  I  know  that  the 
tremendous  drama  of  life  is  playing  in  every  act,  from 
beginning  to  exit,  and  I,  the  solitary  spectator,  sitting 
here,  can  see  nothing,  hear  nothing;  yet  assuredly  I 
know  that  it  is  all  passing  there! 

But  there  is  an  eye  from  which  darkness  hides  no- 
thing. There  is  an  ear  to  which  every  whisper  of  the 
Universe  goes.  Over  the  great  city  God  watches.  It 
is  neither  tangled  nor  confused  to  Him.  To  his  pierc- 
ing gaze  stone  and  brick  ar$  transparent  as  crystal. 
Yea,  the  silence  of  the  soul  is  audible.  The  secret  in- 
tents of  the  heart  are  before  him.  The  Lord  shall 
watch  the  city,  and  when  all  other  keepers  fail,  He 
shall  keep  it. 
10 


XVII 


TEE  DEATH  OP  OUR  ALMANAC. 

1853. 

He  died  without  a  groan.  He  seemed  as  vigorous, 
only  the  day  before,  as  the  first  day  of  his  life;  and 
held  his  own  to  the  last  moment.  Were  it  not  that 
another  child  of  the  same  family,  bearing  the  same 
general  features,  and  apparently  of  the  same  temper,  is 
ready  to  take  his  place,  we  should  be  inconsolable. 
For,  no  other  friend  have  we  to  whom  we  can  go  for 
advice,  as  we  could  to  him.  He  was,  doubtless,  some- 
what of  an  Oriental  turn  of  mind,  and  spoke  mostly  in 
figures.  Yet  his  knowledge  in  various  things  was  not 
small  and  was  exceedingly  practical.  He  held  converse 
with  the  stars,  and  seemed  to  know  what  was  going  on 
among  all  the  planets.  He  had  a  habit  of  looking  after 
the  sun,  and  had  become  so  well  acquainted  with  his 
favorite  resorts  that  he  could  tell  you  what  he  would 
do  and  where  he  could  be  found  for  years  to  come. 
He  knew  all  the  coquettings  of  the  sun  and  moon ;  and 
all  the  seasons  at  which  the  stars  would  play  bo-peep 
with  each  other ;  and  all  the  caprices  of  the  moon,  from 
her  slyest  glance  to  the  fullest  gaze  of  her  maidenly  face. 

Although  his  thoughts  seemed  much  on  high,  he  also 
had  much  earthly  lore.  He  was  particularly  fond  of 
looking  after  the  tides;  he  kept  a  calendar  of  various 


THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  ALMANAC.  219 

events  and  days,  and  notched  the  whole  year  upon  his 
table. 

We  seldom  took  in  hand  an  important  matter  with- 
out consulting  him.:  We  never  found  his  judgment  of 
events  wrong.  And  now,  his  face  and  sides  bear  the 
marks  of  our  regard. 

These  economical  uses  were  but  the  "  exterior  knowl- 
edges" of  our  departed  friend.  Nothing  pleased  him 
better  than,  on  some  winter  night,  to  be  drawn  forth, 
and  held  before  the  glowing  fire,  and  persuaded  into  a 
spiritual  converse.  How  many  discourses  has  he  thus 
uttered !  Sometimes  he  would  liken  the  year  to  human 
life,  and  draw  the  analogies  of  each  month  to  corre- 
sponding periods  in  man's  development  and  experience. 
At  other  times,  he  would  divide  the  world's  life  into 
periods,  and  he  always  declared  that  the  world  was 
revolving  through  a  vast  year  of  its  own — a  period  &s 
long  as  the  earth's  whole  existence — and  that  we  were 
living  the  world's  great  month  of  March, — full  of  bluster 
and  storm.  You  can  no  more  know,  said  he  once  to  us, 
the  glory  of  the  world  as  it  shall  be,  from  what  it  has 
been,  than,  from  the  scenes  of  February  and  March,  you 
can  suspect  the  contents  of  J une  and  October. 

On  one  occasion,  our  Almanac  seemed  unusually 
oracular.  Laid  on  the  shelf  with  several  imaginative 
authors,  he  seemed  to  have  felt  their  influence. 

We  were  sitting  in  our  scarlet  chair,  our  feet  upborne 
upon  another,  and  pointed  toward  the  fire,  like  artillery. 
We  passed  into  an  "  impressible"  state.  The  wind  was 
rattling  the  windows  on  the  back  of  the  house,  and 


220  THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  ALMANAC. 

whistling  wild  tones  through  the  crevices ;  and,  occa- 
sionally, we  could  hear  the  tide  below  rushing  past  the 
piers  in  the  East  Eiver,  and  splashing  sullenly  against 
them.  "Come,"  said  we,  "  speak  out.  Under  these 
names,  January,  February,  March,  April,  how  much  is 
hid  that  the  eye  can  not  see  ?  Uncover  the  months  and 
interpret  them."  We  touched  the  very  chord.  In  a 
low  and  sweet  way,  he  began  to  speak  as  if  he  were  a 
harp,  and  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  year  like  a  gentle  wind 
was  breathing  through  it. 

"January  !  Darkness  and  light  reign  aliice.  Snow 
is  on  the  ground.  Cold  is  in  the  air.  The  winter  is 
blossoming  in  frost-flowers.  *Why  is  the  ground  hid- 
den ?  Why  is  the  earth  white  ?  So  hath  God  wiped 
out  the  past ;  so  hath  he  spread  the  earth  like  an  un- 
written page,  for  a  new  year  !  Old  sounds  are  silent  in 
the  forest,  and  in  the  air.  Insects  are  dead,  birds  are 
gone,  leaves  have  perished,  and  all  the  foundations  of 
soil  remain.  Upon  this  lies,  white  and  tranquil,  the 
emblem  of  newness  and  purity,  the  virgin  robes  of  the 
yet  unstained  year ! 

"  February  !  The  day  gains  upon  the  night.  The 
strife  of  heat  and  cold  is  scarce  begun.  The  winds  that 
come  from  the  desolate  north  wander  through  forests 
of  frost-cracking  boughs,  and  shout  in  the  air  the  wierd 
cries  of  the  northern  bergs  and  ice-resounding  oceans. 
Yet,  as  the  month  wears  on,  the  silent  work  begins, 
though  storms  rage.  The  earth  is  hidden  yet,  but  not 
dead.  The  sun  is  drawing  near.  The  storms  cry  out. 
But  the  sun  is  not  heard  in  all  the  heavens.    Yet  he 


THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  ALMANAC. 


221 


whispers  words  of  deliverance  into  the  ears  of  every 
sleeping  seed  and  root  that  lies  beneath  the  snow.  The 
day  opens,  but  the  night  shuts  the  earth  with  its  fiost- 
lock.  They  strive  together,  but  the  Darkness  and  the 
Cold  are  growing  weaker.  On  some  nights  they  forget 
to  work. 

"  March  !  The  conflict  is  more  turbulent,  but  the 
victory  is  gained.  The  world  awakes.  There  come 
voices  from  long-hidden  birds.  The  smell  of  the  soil  is 
in  the  air.  The  sullen  ice  retreating  from  open  field, 
and  all  sunny  places,  has  slunk  to  the  north  of  every 
fence  and  rock.  The  knolls  and  banks  that  face  the 
east  or  south  sigh  for  release,  and  begin  to  lift  up  a 
thousand  tiny  palms. 

"  April  !  The  singing  month.  Many  voices  of  many 
birds  call  for  resurrection  over  the  graves  of  flowers, 
and  they  come  forth.  Go,  see  what  they  have  lost. 
What  have  ice,  and  snow,  and  storm,  done  unto  them  ? 
How  did  they  fall  into  the  earth,  stripped  and  bare? 
How  do  they  come  forth  opening  and  glorified  ?  Is  it, 
then,  so  fearful  a  thing  to  lie  in  the  grave  ? 

In  its  wild  career,  shaking  and  scourged  of  storms  . 
through  its  orbit,  the  earth  has  scattered  away  no  treas- 
ures. The  Hand  that  governs  in  April  governed  in 
January.  You  have  not  lost  what  God  has  only  hidden. 
You  lose  nothing  in  struggle,  in  trial,  in  bitter  distress. 
If  called  to  shed  thy  joys  as  trees  their  leaves ;  if  the 
affections  be  driven  back  into  the  heart,  as  the  life  of 
flowers  to  their  roots,  yet  be  patient.  Thou  shalt  lift 
up  thy  leaf-covered  boughs  again.    Thou  shalt  shoot 


222  THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  ALMANAC. 

forth  from  thy  roots  new  flowers.  Be  patient.  Wait. 
When  it  is  February,  April  is  not  far  off.  Secretly  the 
plants  love  each  other. 

"  May  !  0  Flower-Month,  perfect  the  harvests  of 
flowers !  Be  not  niggardly.  Search  out  the  cold  and 
resentful  nooks  that  refused  the  sun  casting  back  its 
rays  from  disdainful  ice,  and  plant  flowers  even  there. 
There  is  goodness  in  the  worst.  There  is  warmth  in 
the  coldness.  The  silent,  hopeful,  unbreathing  sun, 
that  will  not  fret  or  despond,  but  carries  a  placid  brow 
through  the  unwrinkled  heavens,  at  length  conquers 
the  very  rocks,  and  lichens  grow  and  inconspicuously 
blossom.  What  shall  not  Time  do,  that  carries  in  its 
bosom  Love  ? 

"  June  !  Eest !  This  is  the  year's  bower.  Sit  down 
within  it.  Wipe  from  thy  brow  the  toil.  The  elements 
are  thy  servants.  The  dews  bring  thee  jewels.  The 
winds  bring  perfume.  The  earth  shows  thee  all  her 
treasure.  The  forests  sing  to  thee.  The  air  is  all 
sweetness,  as  if  all  the  angels  of  God  had  gone  through 
it,  bearing  spices  homeward.  The  storms  are  but  as 
.flocks  of  mighty  birds  that  spread  their  wings  and  sing 
m  the  high  heaven  !  Speak  to  God,  now,  and  say,  '  O, 
Father,  where  art  thou  ?7  And  out  of  every  flower, 
and  tree,  and  silver  pool,  and  twined  thicket,  a  voice 
will  come,  'God  is  in  me.'  The  earth  cries  to  the 
heavens,  L  God  is  here.'  And  the  heavens  cry  to  the 
earth,  ?  God  is  here.'  The  sea  claims  Him.  The  land 
hath  Him.  His  footsteps  are  upon  the  deep  1  He  sitteth 
upon  the  Circle  of  the  Earth  ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  ALMANAC. 


225 


"  O  sunny  joys  of  the  sunny  month,  yet  soft  and 
temperate,  how  soon  will  the  eager  months  that  come 
burning  from  the  equator,  scorch  you  I 

"  July  !  Bouse  'up  !  The  temperate  heats  that  filled 
the  air  are  raging  forward  to  glow  and  overfill  the  earth 
with  hotness.  Must  it  be  thus  in  every  thing,  that  June 
shall  rush  toward  August  ?  Or,  is  it  not  that  there  are 
deep  and  unreached  places  for  whose  sake  the  probing 
sun  pierces  down  its  glowing  hands  ?  There  is  a  deeper 
work  than  June  can  perform.  The  earth  shall  drink 
of  the  heat  before  she  knows  her  nature  or  her  strength. 
Then  shall  she  bring  forth  to  the  uttermost  the  treasures 
of  her  bosom.  For,  there  are  things  hidden  far  down, 
and  the  deep  things  of  life  are  not  known  till  the  fire 
reveals  them. 

"  August  !  Eeign,  thou  Fire-Month  !  What  canst 
thou  do?  Neither  shalt  thou  destroy  the  earth,  whom 
frosts  and  ice  could  not  destroy.  The  vines  droop,  the 
trees  stagger,  the  broad-palmed  leaves  give  thee  their 
moisture,  and  hang  down.  But  every  night  the  dew 
pities  them.  Yet,  there  are  flowers  that  look  thee  in 
the  eye,  fierce  Sun,  all  day  long,  and  wink  not.  This 
is  the  rejoicing  mqnth  for  joyful  insects.  If  our  unself- 
ish eye  would  behold  it,  it  is  the  most  populous  and 
the  happiest  month.  The  herds  plash  in  the  sedge ; 
fish  seek  the  deeper  pools;  forest-fowl  lead  out  their 
young  ;  the  air  is  resonant  of  insect  orchestras,  each 
one  carrying  his  part  in  Nature's  grand  harmony. 
August,  thou  art  the  ripeness  of  the  year !  Thou  art 
the  glowing  center  of  the  circle ! 


224  THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  ALMANAC. 

"  September  !  There  are  thoughts  in  thy  heart  of 
death.  Thou  art  doing  a  secret  work,  and  heaping  up 
treasures  for  another  year.  The  unborn  infant-buds 
which  thou  art  tending  are  more  than  all  the  living 
leaves.  Thy  robes  are  luxuriant,  but  worn  with  soft- 
ened pride.  More  dear,  less  beautiful  than  June,  thou 
art  the  heart's  month.  Not  till  the  heats  of  summer 
are  gone,  while  all  its  growths  remain,  do  we  know  the 
fullness  of  life.  Thy  hands  are  stretched  out,  and  clasp 
the  glowing  palm  of  August,  and  the  fruit-smelling 
hand  of  October.  Thou  dividest  them  asunder,  and  art 
thyself  molded  of  them  both. 

"  October  !  Orchard  of  the  year !  Bend  thy  boughs 
to  the  earth,  redolent  of  glowing  fruit !  Ripened  seeds 
shake  in  their  pods.  Apples  drop  in  the  stillest  hours. 
Leaves  begin  to  let  go  when  no  wind  is  out,  and  swing 
in  long  waverings  to  the  earth,  which  they  touch  with- 
out sound,  and  lie  looking  up,  till  winds  rake  them,  and 
heap  them  in  fence  corners.  When  the  gales  come 
through  the  trees,  the  yellow  leaves  trail,  like  sparks  at 
night  behind  the  flying  engine.  The  woods  are  thinner, 
so  that  we  can  see  the  heavens  plainer,  as  we  lie  dream- 
ing on  the  yet  warm  moss  by  the  singing  spring.  The 
days  are  calm.  The  nights  are  tranquil.  The  year's 
work  is  done.  She  walks  in  gorgeous  apparel,  looking 
upon  her  long  labor,  and  her  serene  eye  saith,  1  It  is 
good.' 

"  November  !  Patient  watcher,  thou  art  asking  to 
lay  down  thy  tasks.  Life,  to  thee,  now,  is  only  a  task 
accomplished.    In  the  night-time  thou  liest  down,  and 


THE  DEATH  OF  OUR  ALMANAC. 


225 


the  messengers  of  winter  deck  thee  with  hoarfrosts  for 
thy  burial.  The  morning  looks  upon  thy  jewels,  and 
they  perish  while  it  gazes.  Wilt  thou  not  come,  O 
December  ? 

"  December  !  Silently  the  month  advances.  Thero 
is  nothing  to  destroy,  but  much  to  bury.  Bury,  then, 
thou  snow,  that  slumberously  fallest  through  the  still 
air,  the  hedge-rows  of  leaves !  Muffle  thy  cold  wool 
about  the  feet  of  shivering  trees !  Bury  all  that  the 
year  hath  known,  and  let  thy  brilliant  stars,  that  never 
shine  as  they  do  in  thy  frostiest  nights,  behold  the 
work  !  But  know,  0  month  of  destruction,  that  in  thy 
constellation  is  set  that  Star,  whose  rising  is  the  sign, 
for  evermore,  that  there  is  life  in  death  !  Thou  art  the 
month  of  resurrection.  In  thee,  the  Christ  came.  Every 
star,  that  looks  down  upon  thy  labor  and  toil  of  burial, 
knows  that  all  things  shall  come  forth  again.  Storms 
shall  sob  themselves  to  sleep.  Silence  shall  find  a 
voice.  Death  shall  live,  Life  shall  rejoice,  Win.ter  shall 
break  forth  and  blossom  into  Spring,  Spring  shall  put 
on  her  glorious  apparel  and  be  called  Summer.  It  is 
life !  it  is  life  !  through  the  whole  year  !" 

We  know  not  the  temper  of  our  Almanac  for  1854. 
As  yet,  it  is  taciturn.  But  we  have  hopes  that  in  the 
loss  of  our  old  friend,  no  w  silent  and  laid  to  rest,  we 
shall  not  be  left  without  a  companion,  as  wise,  as  genial, 
and  as  instructive. 
10* 


XVIII. 

FOG  IN  THE  HARBOR. 


Late  in  the  fall,  especially  if  the  season  be  mild,  we 
are  visited  by  dense  fogs.  Not  such  as  Londoners 
boast,  in  which  men  lose  their  way  in  the  streets  at 
mid-day,  and  shopmen  light  their  gas — fogs  that  might 
almost  be  weighed  and  measured,  or  shoveled  like 
snow.  But  we  have  fogs  that  serve  every  purpose  of 
a  new  country. 

The  gay  and  the  idle  do  not  venture  out.  Only  ne- 
cessity draws  men  forth  on  such  a  day.  People  of 
leisure  look  listlessly  out  of  the  windows  into  the  gray 
haze.  As  they  look,  the  mist  seems  to  darken  into  a 
form,  and  a  man  emerges,  passes  by,  and  disappears  at 
a  few  steps  into  the  cloud  that  broods  the  street.  You 
hear  footsteps  across  the  way  of  invisible  walkers. 
There  goes  one  with  a  decisive  plat,  plat,  plat,  but 
not  the  shadowy  film  of  a  man  can  you  see.  A  heavy 
and  muffled  footfall  comes  next,  a  fat  woman  in  India- 
rubbers  undoubtedly.  A  little  child  is  coming  now: 
pit,  pat,  pit,  pat ;  it  stops,  perhaps  to  change  the  basket 
to  the  other  arm.  Away  go  the  sightless  feet  again,  pit, 
pat,  quickening  every  step,  and  now  running,  clat,  clat, 
clat,  clat,  till  they  are  brought  up  with  a  smothered 
bunt  and  scuffle,  telling  you  that  somebody  has  been 
run  into.  There  will  be  a  dolorous  story  when  some- 
body gets  home,  without  doubt,  and  relates  with  great 


FOG  IN  THE  HARBOR. 


227 


indignation  how  a  dirty  beggar  boy  almost  knocked 
the  breath  out  of  him !  And  the  beggar  boy  will  re- 
gale his  young  friends  with  the  amazement  and  vexa- 
tion of  the  nicely  dressed  gentleman  into  whom  he  ran 
headlong ! 

Now  and  then,  the  mist  holds  up  its  skirts  and  the 
street  for  a  minute  is  cleared ;  but  soon  the  robe  drops 
again,  and  the  cloud  trails  its  fleece  along  the  very 
ground.  People  come  in  with  hat  and  coat  seeded  all 
over  with  minute  dew-drops.  Everybody  feels  moist 
and  clammy.  The  horses  that  go  past  in  the  middle  of 
the  streets  are  spectral,  like  outline  pencil-drawings,  not 
yet  filled  up  and  shaded. 

But  there  are  grander  things  than  these;  for,  like 
every  thing  else  in  a  pent  up  city,  mist  becomes  insig- 
nificant and  mean  in  the  defiles  of  the  streets. 

Mists  imbosom  the  whole  great  city  yonder,  which 
grinds  and  roars  from  out  of  it  like  a  huge  factory  con- 
cealed by  its  own  smoke. 

Upon  the  bay  it  lays  an  embargo.  Lighters  and 
row-boats  creep  timidly  along  the  wharves.  Ships,  ready 
for  sea,  lie  still.  Craft,  great  and  small,  hug  the  water 
.in  silence,  and  dare  not  stir.  Ships  and  steamers  come 
up  from  the  ocean  to  the  mouth  of  the  harbor  and  dare 
not  enter.  Sea-sick  and  home-sick  passengers  sigh  for 
cleansing  winds.  Pilots  are  as  blind  as  other  men. 
There  are  no  stars,  no  sun,  no  headlands,  no  buoys. 
Tow-boats,  having  given  the  outward-bound  ships  a 
wide  berth,  are  returning  from  their  ponderous  tasks, 
and  timidly  creeping  homeward  with  slow  wheels,  re- 


* 


228 


FOG  IN  THE  HARBOR. 


volving  at  half-stroke,  probing  the  channel  with  sound-  • 
ing-lead,  and  often  bewildered  in  their  way. 

It  is  the  day  for  the  Liverpool  steamers.  But  they 
do  not  leave  their  pier.  No  storm  could  stay  them,  no 
violence  of  wind  or  force  of  wave.  But  this  silent, 
formless,  motionless  mist,  without  weight,  without 
power,  lays  its  hands  upon  them  and  they  are  still. 
There  is  rest  upon  all  the  bay.  Ships  that  should  be 
on  their  way  toward  India,  or  the  Horn,  catch  the  re- 
fluent tide  upon  their  bows,  and  listen  to  its  gurgling 
as  it  splits  and  drives  bubbling  past  on  either  side. 
Labor  slackens  along  the  wharves.  Idle  gangs  of  men 
may  be  heard  in  the  distance,  as  if  their  laugh  were 
just  under  your  window.  Noises  are  no  longer  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  general  clangor,  but  have  individuality. 
A  plank  falls,  and  resounds  like  the  explosion  of  a 
cannon.  A  shout  rings  through  the  air  like  a  weird 
and  ghostly  thing.  These  sounds  in  the  air,  in  broad 
daylight,  made  by  persons  near  at  hand,  but  invisible, 
produce  a  strange  effect  upon  you. 

Ferry-boats  alone  are  doomed  to  ply  their  wonted 
tasks.  Two  great  cities  like  New  York  and  Brooklyn, 
which  are  the  first  and  third  in  size  in  the  Union,  can  , 
not  afford  to  have  this  liquid  street  stopped  up  by  a 
fog.  The  boats  must  grope  and  creep.  It  is  not  among 
the  least  of  New  York  sights  to  take  a  fog-trip  upon,  a 
ferry-boat.  The  boats  are  loaded  down  with  passengers 
who  huddle  together  like  sheep  in  a  cold  rain.  The 
boat  pushes  boldly  out,  but  is  lost  before  it  gets  its 
length  from  the  slip.    The  pilot  knows  the  tide ;  he 


FOG  IN  THE  HARBOR 


229 


knows  what  crafts"  are  anchored  in  the  stream ;  but  he 
does  not  know  how  the  tide  is  placing  him  in  reference 
to  them.  The  hands  are  all  on  the  alert.  The  pilots 
and  extra  officers  are  on  the  top,  peering  and  watching, 
and  seeking,  like  metaphysicians,  to  penetrate  the  misty- 
obscure.  "There  she  is,"  suddenly  cries  one,  "stop 
her,  back  her."  There  is  a  rumbling  down  below,  as 
the  engineer  stops  and  reverses  the  engine.  The  white 
foam  begins  to  sweep  past  the  bow,  showing  that  the 
wheels  are  revolving  in  an  opposite  direction.  By  this 
time,  common  eyes  'can  see  a  spectral  ship,  with  filmy 
masts,  looming  up  right  in  the  track  of  the  boat.  We 
are  close  upon  her  before  the  headway  is  checked,  and 
we  begin  to  draw  off.  Taking  a  new  start,  the  boat 
aims  again  with  her  ears  for  the  slip,  and  soon  the  gray 
masts  of  other  craft  shoot  up  from  out  of  the  white 
mist-bank.  Again  the  engine  stops.  We  creep  up 
cautiously.  We  can  hear  voices,  but  see  no  forms. 
We  have  run  two  piers  too  far  up,  and  must  back  out ; 
then  we  run  as  far  below;  we  must  back  again,  and 
creep  stealthily  along,  and  at  length  we  hit  the  mark. 

In  the  night,  when  dense  fogs  prevail,  the  whole 
night  long  you  hear  the  signal-bells  tolling,  and  the 
steam-whistles  of  the  boats  calling  to  each  other  shrilly 
like  whistling  quails  in  a  forest.  Now  and  then  a  sin- 
gle stroke  upon  a  large  triangle  used  upon  the  boats,  tells 
you  that  they  are  signaling  each  other.  Our  dwelling, 
on  the  Heights,  brings  these  night  sounds  drearily  up  to 
us.  One  can  hardly  help  imagining  that  these  are 
living  beings,  wandering  about  in  the  harbor,  crying 


230  FOG  IN  THE  HARBOR. 

• 

out  to  each  other  with  wild  implorations,  all  night,  as 
if  they  were  lost  and  called  for  help.  Sometimes  a 
trip,  which  usually  requires  five  minutes,  will  be  moro 
than  an  hour  long,  and  boats  have  sometimes  got  en- 
tirely lost,  and  landed  their  passengers  half  a  mile  from 
the  proper  place.  One  can  not  be  familiar  with  such 
scenes  without  many  suggestions  of  moral  analogy. 
How  many  men  of  great  strength  and  power  are  made 
helpless  by  ignorance,  and  spend  their  time  in  running 
in  toward,  and  backing  out  from,  their  aims ;  how  many 
men  reason  upon  great  questions  of  the  Past  and  of  the 
Future,  in  a  mist  as  profound  as  that  which  bewilders 
these  pilots,  and  find  themselves  running  due  south 
when  they  thought  they  were  going  north ! 

How  nearly  do  all  of  us,  in  some  respects,  resemble 
these  befogged  coursers !  The  stream  of  life  hides  its 
further  bank.  We  steer  across  it,  scarcely  knowing 
where  we  go.  If  the  vapor  lifts  occasionally,  to  give 
an  assurance  to  our  faith,  it  soon  lets  down  its  robe 
again,  and  we  run  drowsily  and  unseeing  upon  the 
shores. 


XIX 


THE  MORALS  OF  FISHING-. 

June  22,  1854. 

The  following  note  came  to  us  some  weeks  ago.  But 
so  grave  a  matter  could  not  be  digested  as  hastily  as 
if  it  were  a  mere  state  paper  or  the  programme  of  a 
revolution.  It  required,  and  has  received,  judicious 
reflection. 

"New  York,  May  31,  1854. 

"  Respected  Sir  : — I  was  arguing  against  fishing,  for  pleasure,  with 
some  young  men,  saying  that  they  (fishes)  were  permitted  to  be 
caught  only  for  food,  and  that  they  ought  to  have  the  liberty  of  the 
sea  as  much  as  they  (the  young  men)  the  road,  and  further  declared 
it  kidnapping  to  catch  them ;  —  when  they  cited  your  example  of 
catching  fish.  I  could  say  not  one  word.  What  could  I  say  against 
such  authority  ? 

"  Sorrowfully,  for  the  fishes,  but  taking  this  occasion  to  express  my 
affection  for  you,  I  am,  etc." 

The  writer  argues  against  fishing  for  only  pleasure. 
Of  course,  he  exonerates  all  fishermen  who  fish  for  the 
New  York  and  Boston  markets,  all  fishermen  on  the 
British  Coast  and  off  Newfoundland,  since  they  can 
hardly  be  presumed  to  fish  for  "  pleasure."  To  stand 
for  hours  hauling  up  cod  for  market  is  sport  nearly 
equal  to  drawing  water  at  a  fire  out  of  a  well  fifty  feet 
deep,  with  an  old-fashioned  well-sweep,  or  with  a  frozen 
rope.  We  presume,  however,  that  when  one  is  catch- 
ing fish  under  a  sense  of  duty,  there  will  be  no  sin  if 
he  takes  pleasure  in  it. 


232 


THE  MORALS  OF  FISHING. 


Neither  will  any  blame  attach  to  those  luckless  wights 
who  have  what  is  termed  11  fisherman's  luck,"  which 
may  be  explained  to  be  a  whole  day's  tramp,  in  dismal 
weather,  with  very  wet  clothes,  after  fish  that  won't 
bite,  with  tackling  that  seems  predetermined  to  vex 
you  by  breaking  or  snarling ;  a  state  of  things  which 
hunger  and  weariness  seldom  mend.  In  a  hot  day, 
after  a  misty  morning  has  cleared  up,  and  let  the  sun 
out  to  do  his  best,  this  experience  may  be  varied  by 
sitting  in  a  boat  upon  a  lake,  sunk  down  between  so 
many  hills  that  not  a  breath  of  wind  ever  gets  down  to 
it.  If  you  are  a  man  of  piscatory  perseverance,  you 
can  philosophize  upon  the  probable  sensations  of  mar- 
tyrs with  whom  slow  fires  are  set  to  reason,  for  instance, 
upon  the  folly  of  dissent  and  heresy.  No  breadth  of 
straw-brim  can  save  you  from  the  upward  glances  of 
the  sun  reflected  from  the  water.  Hands  and  wrists, 
face  and  neck,  will  furnish  memorials  of  the  sincerity 
of  your  pursuit.  But,  after  such  experience,  is  the  man 
to  have  superadded  the  charge  of  inhumanity  ?  Is 
it  possible  to  treat  a  fish  worse  than  he  is  treating 
himself? 

These  considerations  aside,  we  will  answer  the  ques- 
tion as  it  is  usually  put  by  the  non-fishing  philanthro- 
pist. It  is  not  right  to  make  up  our  enjoyment  out  of 
the  suffering  of  any  creature.  If  the  pleasure  of  hunt- 
ing or  of  fishing  were  in  the  excitement  furnished  by 
the  creatures  suffering,  then  it  could  no  more  be  justi- 
fied than  any  other  form  of  torturing,  as  practiced 
hitherto,  upon  moral  principles,  for  the  good  of  men's 


THE  MOBALS  OF  FISHING.  233 

souls.  A  benevolent  man  should  find  no  pleasure  in 
mere  animal  suffering. 

But  Isaac  Walton  would  not  accept  the  case  thus  put, 
as  truly  representing  the  facts.  He  would  say,  and  all 
true  sportsmen  are  scrupulously  at  agreement  with  him, 
that  no  man  should  take  a  single  fish,  or  bag  a  single 
bird,  beyond  the  number  which  can  be  used  for  food  by 
himself  or  his  friends.  To  fish  all  day  in  solitary  lakes, 
or  in  the  streams  of  the  wilderness,  when  it  is  certain 
that  not  one  in  twenty  of  the  trout  taken  can  be  used, 
is  not  any  more  a  violation  of  humanity  than  it  is  of 
the  public  sentiment  of  all  true  sportsmen.  A  man  who 
would  stand  at  a  pigeon-roost  and  fire  by  the  hour  into 
the  dense  mass  of  fluttering  birds,  only  to  kill  them,  is 
a  butcher  and  a  brute.  We  shall  let  him  off  from  the 
severity  of  this  sentence  only  by  a  confession  that  he  is 
a  fool,  expressed  by  that  universal  formula  of  folly,  "  I 
did  it  without  thinking." 

Nothing  is  more  clearly  received  as  common-law 
among  gentlemen,  than  that  the  suffering  of  the  victim 
is  not  to  be  allowed  to  give  pleasure.  It  is  to  be 
abridged  in  every  way.  And  prolonged  suffering,  or 
needless  suffering,  is  a  fundamental  violation  of  good 
rules.  We  fear  that  we  must  make  an  exception  against 
those  who  follow  hare  or  fox  hunting. 

The  true  source  of  enjoyment  in  field-sports  is  to  be 
found  in  the  exertion  of  one's  own  faculties,  and  espe- 
cially in  such  a  carriage  of  cne's  self  as  to  be  superior 
in  sagacity  and  caution  to  the  most  wary  and  sharp- 
sighted  of  creatures.    It  is  a  contest  between  instinct 


234 


THE  MORALS  OF  FISHING. 


and  reason.  And  reason  has,  often,  little  to  be  pro  ad 
of  in  the  result. 

But,  aside  from  the  pleasure  which  arises  m  connec- 
tion with  seeking  or  taking  one's  prey,  we  suspect  that 
the  collateral  enjoyments  amount,  often,  to  a  greater 
sum  than  all  the  rest.  The  early  rising,  the  freshness 
of  those  morning  hours  preceding  the  sun,  which  few 
anti-piscatory  critics  know  anything  about ;  that  won- 
drous early-morning  singing  of  birds,  compared  to  which 
all  after-day  songs  are  mere  ejaculations  ; — for,  such  is 
the  tumult  and  superabundance  of  sweet  noise  soon  after 
four  o'clock  in  summer  mornings,  that  one  would  think 
that,  if  every  dew-drop  were  a  musical  note,  and  the 
birds  had  drank  them  all,  and  were  deliciously  exhaling 
each  drop  as  a  silvery  sound,  they  could  not  have  been 
more  multitudinous  or  delicious.  Then,  there  is  that 
incomparable  sense  of  freedom  which  one  has  in  remote 
fields,  in  forests,  and  along  the  streams.  His  heart, 
trained  in  life  to  play  by  jets,  like  an  artificial  fountain, 
to  flow  along  the  rigid  banks  of  prescribed  custom, 
seems,  as  he  wanders  along  the  streams,  to  resume  its 
own  liberty,  and  like  a  meadow-brook,  to  wind  and 
turn,  amid  flowers  and  fringing  shrubs,  at  its  own  un- 
molested pleasure. 

One  who  believes  that  God  made  the  world,  and  clearly 
developed  to  us  his  own  tastes  and  thoughts  in  the  mak- 
ing, can  not  express  what  feelings  those  are  which  speak 
music  through  his  heart,  in  solitary  communions  with 
Nature.  Nature  becomes  to  the  soul  a  perpetual  letter 
from  God,  freshlj  Written  every  day  and  each  hour. 


THE  MORALS  OF  FISHING-. 


235 


A  little  plant,  growing  in  silent  simplicity  in  some 
covert  spot,  or  looking  down  from  out  of  a  rift  in  some 
rock  uplifted  high  above  his  reach  or  climbing — what 
has  it  said  to  him,  that  he  stops,  and  gazes  as  if  he  saw 
more  than  material  forms  ?  What  is  that  rush  of  feeling 
in  his  heart,  and  that  strange  opening  up  of  thoughts, 
as  if  a  revelation  had  been  made  to  him  ?  Who,  that 
has  only  a  literal  eye,  could  see  anything  but  that 
solitary  flower  casting  a  linear  shadow  on  the  side  of 
the  gray  rock  ? — a  shadow  that  loves  to  quiver,  and  nod, 
and  dance,  to  every  step  which  the  wind-blown  flower 
takes  ?  But  this  floral  preacher  up  in  that  pulpit  has 
many  a  time  preached  tears  into  my  eyes,  and  told  me 
more  than  I  was  ever  able  to  tell  again. 

Indeed,  in  many  and  many  a  tramp,  the  best  sporting 
has  been  done  on  my  back.  Flat  under  a  tree  I  lay, 
a  vast  Brobdignag,  upon  whom  grasshoppers  mounted, 
and  glossy  crickets  crept,  harmless  and  unharmed,  with 
evident  speculation  upon  what  such  a  phenomenon 
could  portend.  Along  the  stems  creep  aspiring  ants, 
searching  with  fiery  zeal  for  no  one  can  even  guess 
what.  They  race  up  that  they  may  race  down  again. 
They  are  full  of  mysterious  signs  to  each  other.  They 
knock  heads,  touch  antennae,  and  then  off  they  rush 
fuller  of  minute  zeal  than  ever. 

The  blue-jay  is  in  the  tree  above  you.  The  wood- 
pecker screws  round  and  round  the  trunk,  hammering 
at  every  place  like  an  auscult-doctor  sounding  a  pa- 
tient's lungs.  Little  birds  fly  in  and  out  gibbering  to 
each  other  in  sweet  detached  sentences,  confidentially 


236  THE  MORALS  OF  FISHING. 

talking  over  their  family  secrets,  and  expressing  those 
delicate  sentiments  which  one  never  speaks  except  in 
a  whisper,  and  in  twilight.  When  you  rise,  the  birds 
flutter  and  fly,  and  clouds  of  insects  flash  off  from  you 
like  sparks  from  a  fire  when  a  log  rolls  over. 

The  brook  that  gurgles  past  the  tree,  feeding  its  roots, 
and  taking  its  pay  in  summer  shadows,  varied  every 
hour,  receives  a  portion  of  the  off-jumping  fry.  For  a 
grasshopper,  unlike  a  bomb,  goes  off  without  calcula- 
ting where  it  shall  fall.  Far  off  its  coming  shines. 
Before  it  had  even  touched  the  water,  that  bold  trout 
sprung  sparkling  from  the  surface  and  sunk  as  soon, 
leaving  only  a  few  bubbles  to  float  away.  There !  if 
the  trout  has  a  right  to  his  grasshopper,  have  I  not  a 
right  to  the  trout?  I'll  have  him!  After  several 
throws,  I  find  that  it  takes  two  to  make  a  bargain. 

At  length  one  must  go  home.  I  never  turn  from  the 
silence  of  the  underbrush,  or  the  solitude  of  the  fields, 
or  the  rustlings  of  the  forest,  without  a  certain  sadness 
as  if  I  were  going  away  from  friends. 

But  we  shall  be  deemed  superficial  if  we  leave  it  to 
be  believed  that  this  is  a  fair  exposure  of  the  joys  of 
fishing.  What  have  we  said  of  mountain  brooks,  and 
the  grandeur  of  dark  gorges,  where  one  is  well  nigh  in 
a  trance,  and  almost  forgets  to  drop  his  bait ;  or  does  it 
mechanically,  and  draws  forth  a  fish  as  if  it  were  a  very 
solemn  deed.  What  have  we  said  of  sea-fishing,  a  snug 
boat,  a  smart  breeze,  a  long  and  strong  line  ending  with 
a  squid.  We  sweep  along  the  flashing  waters  as  if  ra- 
cing.   A  blue-fish  strikes  the  glittering,  whirling  squid. 


« 


THE  MORALS  OF  FISHING.  237 

with  a  stroke  that  sends  electricity  along  the  line  into 
the  hands  of  him  that  holds  it,  as  you  would  believe  if 
you  saw  the  sprightliness  with  which  he  hauls  in  hia 
line.  Back  and  forth  you  sweep  the  waters,  your  boat 
apparently  as  much  alive  as  you  are,  and  enjoying  as 
much ! 

Then  you  lie  under  some  fragment  of  a  boat,  or  upon 
some  dry  seaweeds,  while  your  distant  dinner  is  sput- 
tering and  reeking  in  the  kitchen  of  the  rude  hotel, 
used  only  in  summer,  by  people  seeking  health  or 
amusement,  in  out-of-the-way  fishing  places.  0,  how 
the  heavens  swell  roundly  out,  and  lift  themselves  up, 
with  a  wild  attraction,  that  makes  you  gasp,  as  one 
sighs  and  gasps  who  is  deeply  thinking  of  some  pro- 
found horror!  The  sea  is  running  out  in  fiery  lines, 
crossed  by  the  sun,  on  every  wave-swell ;  white  sails  lie 
cloudily  against  the  distant  horizon,  and  dim  and  spec- 
tre-like, as  they  are,  how  they  open  the  whole  world  of 
islands  and  continents  to  the  imagination,  whence  they 
come,  or  whither  they  are  going.  But  the  dinner-horn 
sounds,  and  sea,  heavens,  islands  and  continents,  ships 
with  homesick  voyagers,  sink  down  like  a  dream  in  the 
morning,  and  we  make  haste  to  the  universally  re- 
spected duty  of  eating.  There  is  no  prejudice  against 
that.  Sober  men,  careful,  earnest  men,  yea,  all  of  them 
eat,  and  as  zealously  as  the  flippant  and  the  careless. 

Then  comes  the  going  down  of  the  sun.  The  boat 'puts 
us  across  to  the  main  land.  The  wind  has  gone  down. 
The  surface  is  clear  and  level.  Shadows  from  the  land 
fall  far  over  on  the  bay,  and  the  light  that  yet  plays 


238 


THE  MORALS  OF  FISHINU. 


upon  the  surface  is  ruddy  and  mellow.  The  oar  is 
thoughtful,  and  dips  and  rises  gently.  At  each  pull  the 
oarsmen  pause,  and  musical  drops,  through  which  the 
light  flashes,  trickle  back  to  the  deep  whence  they  had 
risen.  Each  drop  is  a  sphere,  and  in  each  sphere 
might  have  arisen  the  mother  of  beauty,  liquid  Venus 
Anadyomene.  And  so  came  we  into  life,  and  so  sink 
away  from  it,  into  the  great  Eternal  Sea. 
m  The  day  is  over.  The  cars  have  received  us.  Our 
thoughts  have  dismissed  all  their  fanciful  forms.  "We 
talk  of  failures,  of  brilliant  strokes  of  policy,  of  banks, 
and  ships,  of  what  this  man  is  worth,  and  what  his 
neighbor  was  worth  just  before  he  became  worth  no- 
thing. In  short,  we  are  sensible  again ;  fit  to  plod  in 
the  streets,  so  as  to  have  good,  sound,  prudent  men  call 
us  a  safe  and  discreet  man ! 

But  to  return  to  our  correspondent.  Will  he  be 
pleased  to  say  to  all  disputants  who  quote  our  example, 
that  we  never  fish  except  with  a  remote  culinary  inspi- 
ration ;  that  we  never  catch  more  than  will  supply  the 
reasonable  wants  of  the  family,  and  that,  too  often,  un- 
fortunately, we  stop  far  short  of  that. 

The  gentle  gurgling  of  the  brook,  what  is  it  to  a 
thoroughly  practical  man  but  a  remembrancer  of  the 
savory  simmering  of  the  frying-pan?  It  couples  the 
practical  and  domestic  end  of  fishing  with  the  physical 
and  poetic  excitement  of  the  operation !  Alas !  that  a 
world  should  be  so  barbarous  as  to  condemn  piscatory 
sports  so  long  as  they  contribute  to  exercise  taste,  senti 
merit,  and  moral  enjoyment;  and  that  all  objection 


THE  MORALS  OF  FISHING.  239 

ceases  when  a  man  can  prove  that  he  labored  for  his 
mouth  alone.  It  is  all  right,  if  *it  was  eating  that  he 
had  in  mind.  The  frying-pan  is  in  universal  favor. 
This  is  the  modern  image  that  fell  down  from  heaven, 
which  all  men  hold  in  reverence ! 

Inform  your  friends,  if  you  please,  that  our  skill  in 
fishing  is  principally  displayed  upon  paper ;  and  that 
our  excursions  usually  turn  out  to  be  a  little  of  fishing, 
a  good  deal  of  wandering  dreamily  about,  yet  more  of 
lying  under  trees,  or  of  being  perched  up  in  some  notch 
of  a  rock,  or  of  silent  sittings  on  the  edge  of  ravines 
and  trumpeting  waterfalls.  And,  finally,  inform  them 
that  we  are  guiltless  of  shooting,  and  seldom  feel  an  im- 
pulse to  explode  powder,  except  when  we  see  respectable 
city  stupidities  killing  little  singing-birds.  We  some- 
times feel  an  inclination  then  to  shoot  the  unmannerly 
fowler.  No  gentleman  would  shoot  a  singing-bird. 
And  now,  if  our  correspondent's  friends  will,  in  spite 
of  his  excellent  dissuasions,  still  go  a-fishing,  our  only 
wish  is  that  after  two  seasons  of  fishing  they  may  do 
what  we  have  not  done — catch  so  many  fish  as  would, 
if  sold  at  a  fair  price,  pay  the  expense  of  their  tackle 


XX. 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR. 
'  July  0,  1854. 

We  reached  Albany  at  9  o'clock,  and  waited,  incon- 
veniently, till  half-past  ten,  for  the  night  express-train 
to  start.  We  took  a  lonely  walk  along  the  streets,  saw 
men  as  if  they  had  been  trees,  looked  upon  glittering 
windows  as  a  vain  show,  and  speculated  upon  the  sen- 
sations of  a  man  in  the  midst  of  all  the  impulses  of 
busy  life  but  not  affected  by  them,  walking  unmoved 
amid  things  which  move  others. 

As  the  hour  drew  near  for  starting,  we  hastened  back 
to  the  cars,  took  possession  of  the  whole  seat,  meditat- 
ing methods  of  extracting  sleep  out  of  a  long  night- 
ride.  Every  one  seemed  doing  the  same  thing,  namely, 
keeping  people  out  of  their  seat.  The  cars  on  the 
night  line  were  far  from  comfortable.  There  was  no 
such  amplitude  of  space  as  one  gets  upon  the  Erie 
road,  no  soft-embracing  backs,  enticing  the  spine  and 
its  terminal  knob  to  rest;  but  narrow,  pent-up  seats, 
and  backs  invented  to  fit  the  wrong  place.  After  all 
our  goings  out  and  comings  in,  we  publicly  declare  it 
to  be  our  faith,  unbought  by  free  ticket,  or  any  privi- 
lege whatever,  that  the  good  broad-gauge  Erie  road  is 
the  only  one  on  which  comfort  is  indigenous.  On  all 
others  it  is  a  mere  imitation.  But,  of  narrow  gauges, 
first  in  comfort  is  the  Hudson  Eiver,  on  an  express- 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR.  241 

train ;  for,  the  speed  and  the  river  prospect  excite  you 
beyond  the  notice  of  inconvenience.    But  to  return. 

We  left  Albany  at  half-past  ten  o'clock.  At  about 
eleven,  the  hum  of  conversation  died  away.  Every  one 
was  busy  with  the  unnatural  problem  of  sleep.  In  the 
cars,  stretching  one's  self  out  for  balmy  sleep,  means, 
curling  one's  self  up  like  a  cat  in  a  corner.  Short  limbs 
are  a  luxury  when  a  man  sleeps  by  the  square  inch. 
First,  you  lie  down  by  the  right  side,  against  the  window, 
till  a  stitch  in  your  side,  worming  its  way  through  your 
uneasy  dream,  like  an  awl,  leads  you  to  reverse  your 
position.  As  you  lean  on  the  inside  end  of  your  seat, 
the  conductor  knocks  your  hat  off,  or  uses  your  head  as  - 
a  support  to  his  steps  as  he  sways  along  the  rocking 
passage.  At  length,  with  a  groan  which  expresses  the 
very  feeling  of  every  bone  and  muscle  and  individual 
organ  in  your  body,  you  try  to  sit  upright,  and  to  sleep 
erect.  But  erect  sleep  is  perilous,  even  when  it  is  pos- 
sible. You  nod  and  pitch,  you  collapse  and  condense, 
and  finally  settle  down  in  a  promiscuous  heap,  wishing 
that  you  were  a  squirrel,  or  a  kitten,  and  curiously  re- 
membering .  dogs  that  could  convolute  on  a  mat,  and 
birds  that  could  tuck  their  head  under  their  wings,  and 
draw  their  feet  and  legs  up  under  their  feathers.  0  ! 
that  I  were  round  like  a  marble,  and  could  be  rid  of 
protruding  members  !  But  such  slumberous  philosophy 
and  somnolent  yearnings  for  circular  shapes  die  out  as 
you  sink  again  into  a  lethargy,  until  the  scream  of  the 
whistle,  the  grinding  of  the  brakes,  the  concussions  and 
jerks,  arouse  you  to  the  fact  that  you  are  stopping  to 
11 


242 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR. 


wood  and  water,  and  that  some  surely  insane  person 
has  come  in  at  this  station,  and  wishes  a  part  of  your 
seat !  "  No,  sir !  I  am  a  sovereign  squatter  here.  I 
claim  a  pre-emption  right.  I  have  staked  off  this  seat, 
and  after  all  that  I  have  suffered,  I  shall  not  give  it  up 
to  any  body."  So  the  wheezing  obesity,  at  least  300 
avoirdupois,  goes  on.  A  faint  smile  plays  on  my  lips 
to  think  what  a  time  somebody  will  have  who  takes 
that  continent  of  flesh  into  his  seat ;  for,  in  his  despair, 
he  will  soon  plunge  into  somebody's  seat,  like  an  over- 
setting load  of  hay.  But  the  incomers  walk  disconso- 
lately along,  examining  each  side  for  a  spot.  It  is 
quite  easy  to  defend  yourself  against  the  pert  and 
knowing.  But  that  poor,  pale,  faint-looking  woman, 
carrying  a  sleeping  babe,  that  fears  to  disturb  any  one, 
— u  Here,  madam,  sit  down  here — room  enough — sit 
down,  if  you  please."  "  But  I  fear,  sir,  I  shall,  with 
my  babe — "  •  "No,  madam — no  trouble — not  if  there 
were  ten  more  children."  Poor  little  thing,  it  sleeps 
amidst  the  night,  and  all  this  inconvenience  and  weari- 
ness of  trouble,  as  a  sea*  bird  sleeps  in  some  grassy  cove, 
on  the  swing  of  the  black  waters.  By  and  by,  you  shall 
not  sleep  so.  You  shall  grow  up  to  bear  your  own 
troubles,  and  the  storms  that  blow  shall  not  be  broken 
by  a  mother's  bosom,  but  strike  right  into  your  own. 
You  offer  a  part  of  your  shawl ;  you  insist  that  the 
child  shall  be  divided,  or  the  care  of  it,  and  by  a  quiet 
way  you  gradually  get  the  little  fellow  wholly  into  your 
own  lap,  and  press  him  to  your  heart,  and  drop  down 
tears  on  him,  God  knows  why  I    How  it  rests  you  to 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR 


243 


feel  his  sweet  burdensomeness.  The  mother  knows  her 
child's  safety,  and  drops  asleep.  It  is  a  face  with  which 
sorrow  has  been  busy.  Perhaps  she  seeks  her  father's 
house  again,  from  the  grave  of  a  buried  husband.  Or 
she  may  have  gone  eager  to  meet  her  young  returning 
husband,  from  Californian  adventure,  only  to  learn  that 
he  died  on  the  Isthmus — that  mountain  graveyard  of 
so  many  thousands.  But  you  ask  no  questions.  About 
three  of  the  morning  she  leaves.  You  carry  the  child, 
and  give  it  to  her  ;  and  as  she  turns  and  disappears  into 
the  somber-gray  night,  you  hear  the  little  fellow's  voice 
chirruping,  like  a  bird's  startled  note,  as  it  dreams  in 
the  still  night,  and  speaks  in  its  sleep  from  out  of  leaves 
and  darkness. 

You  return,  and  look  for  a  moment  at  the  grotesque 
appearance  of  a  car  fall  of  sleeping  and  sleepless 
wretches.  What  persuasion  could  induce  that  pompous 
little  man,  bald-headed,  round-faced,  and  rubicund,  to 
put  himself  into  such  a  ludicrous  attitude,  if  he  were 
awake  ?  His  feet  sprawled  forth,  his  body  half  sunk 
sideways,  his  head  lolling  back,  his  mouth  wide  open 
like  a  cannon  !  His  good  dame  by  his  side  looks  like 
a  bag  of  clothes,  thrown  loosely  into  a  corner  till  the 
next  morning.  There  sits  a  sandy -haired  man,  thin- 
visaged,  keen-eyed,  as  still  as  if  he  were  asleep,  but  as 
wide  awake  and  perpendicular  as  if  he  were  a  light- 
house. By  contrast  everybody  looks  ten  times  sleepier 
than  before,  after  you  have  looked  at  him.  At  length, 
the  long  nightmare  wears  itself  out.  Color  begins  to 
come  into  the  cheeks  of  the  morning.    The  air  smells 


244     '  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR. 


fresher.  Birds  are  seen,  and  might  be  heard,  if  tho 
huge  Bird  of  Speed  that  whirls  you  along  were  not  so 
noisy. 

But,  while  thus  speeding  along,  you  suddenly  check 
your  headway,  stop,  switch  off  upon  a  side-track :  the 
conductor  walks  through  the  cars,  "  Engine  has  burst  a 
flue ;  stop  here  one  hour,  till  we  can  get  another  from 
Rochester."  Every  body  starts  up,  the  cars  swarm  like 
bee-hives  in  a  hot  day,  every  body  goes  out  and  looks 
at  the  engine,  and  the  grand  fellow  stands  patiently  to 
be  looked  at.  I  feel  like  taking  off  my  hat  in  the  pres- 
ence of  these  monarchs  of  the  road.  It  is  at  Palmyra. 
The  village  is  half  a  mile  back.  I  question  the  con- 
ductor, look  at  my  watch,  and  march  off  in  search  of  a 
breakfast.  The  first  tavern  has  a  specimen  on  the  steps 
that  discourages  me;  go  on  to  the  second,  new,  coldly 
clean,  and  desolate.  Nothing  is  round,  soft,  cosy;  the 
angles  are  sharp  as  razors ;  the  colors  are  cold,  and  every 
thing  is  proper  and  stiff.  They  promise  to  get  me  a  hasty 
breakfast.  Three  young  fellows  slyly  slip  into  a  room 
below,  the  landlord  following.  Hear  a  churning  in  the 
tumblers.  They  come  up  wiping  their  mouths,  and  look- 
ing happy.  Table  ready,  cold  meat  left  from  yesterday, 
tasted  it,  and  knew  why  they  left  it.  Good  tea,  good  but- 
ter and  bread,  and  that  is  good  enough  for  any  body.  Felt 
better.  Angles  not  quite  so  sharp  after  all.  The  colors 
of  the  house  warmed  up  a  little.  Walked  back.  Thanked 
the  birds,  thanked  the  grass,  the  bushes,  and  the  river, 
Thanked  the  trees  and  the  clouds.  Sat  down  under  the 
bridge  and  thanked  God.  Saw  the  waters  move  softly  by. 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR.  245 


Felt  alone.  Wished  I  had  company.  Concluded  that 
nothing  could  be  seen  properly  with  less  than  four  eyes. 
The  willows  swayed  to  the  moving  stream.  The  stream 
sped  noiselessly  over  the  rocky  bottom.  My  thoughts 
swayed  like  the  willow,  and  my  feelings  glided  like  the 
stream.  At  last  the  engine  came.  Had  to  wait  yet  for 
another  train  to  pass,  as  there  was  but  a  single  track. 
Off  we  went  at  freight-train  speed.  Being  out  of 
time,  we  were  irregular,  and  had  to  wait  for  every  thing 
on  the  road.  There  stood  the  grand  express  train,  and 
the  vast  engine,  waiting  for  freight  trains  and  cattle 
trains,  and  peddling  way  trains  to  go  by,  just  as  many 
a  noble  man  stands  upon  the  path  of  life,  silent  and 
waiting,  until  the  cumbrous  baggage  of  life  clears  the 
track  and  lets  him  m.  At  length,  at  about  two  o'clock, 
we  reached  Buffalo,  tired,  dusty,  sweaty,  and  eminently 
patient.  Amid  sentiments,  high-soaring  thoughts,  and 
back-reaching  remembrances  and  affections,  there  arose 
stern  thoughts  of  dinner.  These  appetites  are  very 
humiliating  weaknesses.  That  our  grace  depends  so 
largely  upon  animal  conditions  is  not  quite  flattering  to 
those  who  are  hyper-spiritual. 

At  half-past  three  we  start  for  Erie,  thinking,  as  we 
roared  along  the  borders  of  the  lake,  towards  Ohio,  of 
the  days  of  our  childhood,  when  emigration  first  began, 
towards  this,  then,  new  wilderness.  We  thought  of 
the  terror  with  which  our  childish  eyes  saw  the  long 
string  of  movers'  wagons  filing  through  Litchfield, 
"going  to  Ohio,"  and  of  our  oft  retreat  under  the  bed, 
and  into  dark  cupboards,  that  we  might  not  be  pilfered 


246 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR, 


and  carried  off  to  the  West.  In  those  days  the  church 
had  special  meetings  when  a  family  of  their  number 
was  going  to  Ohio.  The  town  took  notice  of  their  de- 
parture. Farewells  were  uttered  as  if  the  separation 
were  eternal.  The  journey  was  one  of  months.  Now 
Cleaveland  is  as  near  to  Albany,  as  then  Litchfield  was 
to  Hartford  or  New  Haven. 

Arrived  at  Erie,  we  put  up  at  Brown's,  but  true  to 
her  reputation,  Erie  served  us  with  a  mob  that  night. 
Learning  that  several  railroad  men  were  staying  at  the 
hotel,  the  rioters  gathered,  with  hootings  and  deceased 
eggs.  But  the  room  which  they  pelted  proved  to  be 
the  lodging  of  a  gentleman  from  St.  Louis,  who  was 
stopping  over  night  with  a  sick  wife.  The  landlord 
seemed  greatly  stirred,  and  said  that  he  had  never  taken 
sides  before  in  any  of  these  difficulties,  but  he  knew 
hereafter  which  side  he  was  on.  If  he  and  other  good 
citizens  had  known  which  side  they  were  on  much  ear- 
lier, there  would  have  soon  been  but  one  side  to  it.  We 
left  for  Meadville,  Pennsylvania,  before  breakfast,  in  a 
buggy.  Pleasant  road,  fine  weather,  and  a  poor  horse. 
We  wound  around  among  the  Pennsylvanian  hills,  ad- 
miring the  fertile  farms,  and  feeling  the  force  of  the 
trees,  and  never  before  so  much  impressed  with  the. 
endless  resources  of  beauty  to  be  found  in  mere  foliage. 
The  various  hues  of  green  in  nature  are  so  many  and 
so  shaded  and  contrasted,  that  a  carpet  might  be  woven 
of  green  alone,  and  yet  range  through  a  long  scale  al- 
most from  black  to  white. 

About  half  way  upon  our  journey,  we  struck  upon 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR.  247 


the  edge  of  one  of  those  ponds  of  the  hill-country  full 
of  pickerels  and  white  lilies.  The  first  we  could  not 
see.  But  the  last  glittered  like  stars  all  over  the  edges 
of  the  pond.  We  were  somewhat  in  haste.  But  what 
was  time  compared  with  lilies  ?  There  they  lay  hold- 
ing up  their  exquisite  cups — silver  without  and  gold 
within — the  gold  embossed  in  white,  and  the  white  set 
in  green.  We  grew  zealous.  But  they  were  some- 
what out  of  reach.  The  water  was  full  of  trunks  of 
trees,  roots,  and  decaying  branches.  The  trunks  would 
not  bear  up  our  weight.  We  stepped,  and  drew  back. 
We  ventured  on  to  this  larger  log,  and  ventured  off 
again  in  half  the  time.  Difficulty  whetted  determination. 
We  became  lily-enthusiastic.  We  got  rails  down  to 
the  edge  of  the  water,  and  by  laying  them  across 
several  contiguous  logs,  hoped  their  united  floating 
power  would  buoy  us  up.  Alas!  no.  We  had  no 
thought  before  of  our  weight  in  life.  We  were  satisfied 
too,  that  walking  on  water  was  a  thing  most  easily  done 
in  imagination ;  and  if  done  well,  to  be  tried  in  January 
rather  than  June.  Having  neither  faith  enough,  nor 
any  miracle,  we  were  at  our  wits'  end,  and  became 
more  firmly  convinced  every  moment  that  it  was  our 
duty  to  have  those  pond-lilies  ;  all  the  more,  because  it 
seemed  impossible,  and  because  we  were  in  a  hurry  and 
could  not  well  afford  the  time  necessary.  Now  in  all 
such  cases  fanaticism  is  the  only  match  for  impossibility, 
and  we  were  seized  with  floral  fanaticism. 

We  pulled  down  logs,  we  packed  more  rails,  we 
searched  out  more  practicable  places,  we  engineered, 


248  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR. 

and  by  using  a  long  pole,  to  relieve  the  trembling  rails 
and  sub-incumbent  logs,  of  part  of  our  weight,  we 
reached  the  fleet  of  snowy  blossoms,  no  longer  to  waste 
their  sweetness  on  the  aqueous  air.  Each  flower 
meekly  said,  "  Take  me."  With  divided  effort,  to 
keep  our  trembling  feet,  to  hold  fast  our  pole  slowly 
sinking  in  the  ooze,  we  stooped  over  the  darlings  and 
one  by  one  drew  up  the  long  stems,  snapped  by  gentle 
pulling,  till  we  had  gathered  a  store  of  broadly  open 
flowers,  perfect  and  full;  another  abundance  of  half 
open  flowers,  beautiful,  and  to  be  more  so ;  and  yet  an- 
other multitude  of  buds,  that  are  but  the  promises  that 
flowers  make.  As  we  drove  on,  we  found  a  small  boat 
lying  near  the  edge,  from  which  we  could  have  gathered 
easily  our  treasures.  But  we  were  agreed  that  we  would 
not  have  touched  the  boat  even  if  we  had  known  its 
presence,  and  that  the  sweet  faces  that  we  were  bearing 
off  were  worth  all  the  enterprise  which  we  had  put 
forth.  Our  errand  was  to  Meadville  Theological  Semi- 
nary, whose  president,  Dr.  Stebbins,  was  a  college  class- 
mate. A  pleasant  day  we  had,  and  early  departed  for 
our  home  journey. 

Thursday  night  saw  us  safely  arrived  at  Painesville, 
Ohio,  and  in  the  hospitable  mansion  of  our  friend  and 
parishioner,  Mr.  Charles  Avery,  who  has  taken  unto 
himself  this  beautiful  spot  as  a  summer  resort.  And 
surely,  a  more  quiet,  tree-singing,  restful  spot  could  not 
well  be  found.  The  grounds  are  full  of  trees,  the 
trees  full  of  birds,  and  we  that  walk  under  them  fall 
of  joj  and  gentle  remembrances  and  yearnings.  The 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  A  STAR.  .249 

house  itself  is  a  model  of  an  old  twenty-inch  walled 
house,  with  deep  windows,  large  rooms,  and  a  hall 
through  which  a  regiment  of  soldiers  might  march 
without  touching.  One  wishes  a  summer-house  to 
have  a  certain  largeness — a  sense  of  space,  a  feeling  as 
if  you  lived  in  an  out-of-doors  with  a  roof  on.  And 
under  these  rustling,  sighing  leaves,  where  the  light 
comes  and  goes  to  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a  thou- 
sand boughs,  among  which  the  wind  wanders,  we  do 
now  write,  and  cease  from  writing,  this  prolix  epistle. 

11* 


i 


i 


XXI. 

BOOK-STORES,  BOOKS. 

May  25. 

Nothing  marks  the  increasing  wealth  of  our  times 
and  the  growth  of  the  public  mind  toward  refinement^ 
more  than  the  demand  for  books.  Within  ten  years 
the  sale  of  common  books  has  increased  probably  two 
hundred  per  cent.,  and  it  is  daily  increasing.  But  the 
sale  of  expensive  works,  and  of  library-editions  of  stand- 
ard authors  in  costly  bindings,  is  yet  more  noticeable.  „ 
Ten  years  ago,  such  a  displiay  of  magnificent  works 
as  is  to  be  found  at  the  Appletons'  would  have  been  a 
precursor  of  bankruptcy.  There  was  no  demand  for 
them.  A  few  dozen,  in  one  little  show-case,  was  the 
prudent  whole.  Now,  one  whole  side  of  an  immense 
store  is  not  only  filled  with  most  admirably  bound 
library-books,  but  from  some  inexhaustible  source  the 
void  continually  made  in  the  shelves  is  at  once  refilled. 
A  reserve  of  heroic  books  supply  the  places  of  those 
that  fall.  Alas !  Where  is  human  nature  so  weak  as  in 
a  book-store  I  Speak  of  the  appetite  for  drink ;  or  of  a 
bon-vivanis  relish  for  a  dinner !  What  are  these  mere 
animal  throes  and  ragings  compared  with  those  fantasies 
of  taste,  of  those  yearnings  of  the  imagination,  of  those 
insatiable  appetites  of  intellect,  which  bewilder  a  student 
in  a  great  bookseller's  temptation-hall  ? 

How  easily  one  may  distinguish  a  genuine  lover  of 
books  from  the  worldly  man  I    With  what  subdued 


BOOK-STORES,  BOOKS.  251 

and  yet  glowing  enthusiasm  does  he  gaze  upon  the 
costly  front  of  a  thousand  embattled  volumes !  How 
gently  he  draws  them  down,  as  if  they  were  little  chil- 
dren; how  tenderly  he  handles  them!  He  peers  at  the 
title-page,  at  the  text,  or  the  notes,  with  the  nicety  of  a 
bird  examining  a  flower.  He  studies  the  binding :  the 
leather,— Eussia,  English  calf,  morocco;  the  lettering, 
the  gilding,  the  edging,  the  hinge  of  the  cover !  He 
opens  it,  and  shuts  it,  he  holds  it  off,  and  brings  it  nigh. 
It  suffuses  his  whole  body  with  book-magnetism.  He 
walks  up  and  down,  in  a  maze,  at  the  mysterious  allot- 
ments of  Providence  that  gives  so  much  money  to  men 
who  spend  it  upon  their  appetites,  and  so  little  to  men 
who  would  spend  it  in  benevolence,  or  upon  their  re- 
fined tastes!  It  is  astonishing,  too,  how  one's  neces- 
sities multiply  in  the  presence  of  the  supply.  One 
never  knows  how  many  things  it  is  impossible  to  do 
without  till  he  goes  to  Windle's  or  Smith's  house- 
furnishing  stores.  One  is  surprised  to  perceive,  at 
some  bazaar, '  or  fancy  and  variety  store,  how  many 
conveniences  he  needs.  He  is  satisfied  that  his  life  must 
have  been  utterly  inconvenient  aforetime.  And  thus, 
too,  one  is  inwardly  convicted,  at  Appleton's,  of  having 
lived  for  years  without  books  which  he  is  now  satis- 
fied that  one  can  not  live  without ! 

Then,  too,  the  subtle  process  by  which  the  man  con- 
vinces himself  that  he  can  afford  to  buy.  No  subtle 
manager  or  broker  ever  saw  through  a  maze  of  financial 
embarrassments  half  so  quick  as  a  poor  book-buyer  sees 
his  way  clear  to  pay  for  what  he  must  have.  He  promises 


252 


BOOK-STOKES,  BOOKS. 


with  himself  marvels  of  retrenchment;  he  will  eat  less,  or 
less  costly  viands,  that  he  may  buy  more  food  for  the 
mind.  He  will  take  an  extra  patch,  and  go  on  with  his 
raiment  another  year,  and  buy  books  instead  of  coats. 
Yea,  he  will  write  books,  that  he*  may  buy  books.  He 
will  lecture,  teach,  trade ;  he  will  do  any  honest  thing 
for  money  to  buy  books!  The  appetite  is  insatiable. 
Feeding  does  not  satisfy  it.  It  rages  by  the  fuel  which 
is  put  upon  it.  As  a  hungry  man  eats  first,  and  pays 
afterward,  so  the  book-buyer  purchases,  and  then  works 
at  the  debt  afterward.  This  paying  is  rather  medicinal. 
It  cures  for  a  time.  But  a  relapse  takes  place.  The 
same  longing,  the  same  promises  of  self-denial.  He 
promises  himself  to  put  spurs  on  both  heels  of  his  in- 
dustry ;  and  then,  besides  all  this,  he  will  somehow  get 
along  when  the  time  for  payment  comes!  Ah!  this 
Somehow  !  That  word  is  as  big  as  a  whole  world,  and 
is  stuffed  with  all  the  vagaries  and  fantasies  that  Fancy 
ever  bred  upon  Hope.  And  yet,  is  there  not  some 
comfort  in  buying  books,  to  be  paid  for?  "We  have 
heard  of  a  sot,  who  wished  his  neck  as  long  as  the 
worm  of  a  still,  that  he  might  so  much  the  longer  enjoy 
the  flavor  of  the  draught  1  Thus,  it  is  a  prolonged 
excitement  of  purchase,  if  you  feel  for  six  months  in  a 
slight  doubt  whether  the  book  is  honestly  your  own  or 
not.  Had  you  paid  down,  that  would  have  been  the 
end  of  it.  There  would  have  been  no  affectionate  and 
beseeching  look  of  your  books  at  you,  every  time  you 
saw  them,  saying,  as  plain  as  a  book's  eyes  can  say, 
"  Do  not  let  me  be  taken  from  you." 


BOOK-STOKES,  BOOKS. 


253 


Moreover,  buying  books  before  you  can  pay  for  them, 
promotes  caution.  You  do  not  feel  quite  at  liberty  to 
take  them  home.  You  are  married.  Your  wife  keeps 
an  account-book.  She  knows  to  a  penny  what  you  can 
and  what  you  can  not  afford.  She  has  no  "  specula- 
tion" in  her  eyes.  Plain  figures  make  desperate  work 
with  airy  "somehows"  It  is  a  matter  of  no  small  skill 
and  experience  to  get  your  books  home,  and  into  their 
proper  places,  undiscovered.  Perhaps  the  blundering 
Express  brings  them  to  the  door  just  at  evening. 
"  What  is  it,  my  dear  ?"  she  says  to  you.  11  Oh !  noth- 
ing— a  few  books  that  I  can  not  do  without."  That 
smile !  A  true  housewife  that  loves  her  husband,  can 
smile  a  whole  arithmetic  at  him  in  one  look!  Of 
course  she  insists,  in  the  kindest  way,  in  sympathizing 
with  you  in  your  literary  acquisition.  She  cuts  the 
strings  of  the  bundle,  (and  of  your  heart,)  and  out 
comes  the  whole  story.  You  have  bought  a  complete 
set  of  costly  English  books,  full  bound  in  calf,  extra 
gilt !  You  are  caught,  and  feel  very  much  as  if  bound 
in  calf  yourself,  and  admirably  lettered. 

Now,  this  must  not  happen  frequently.  The  books 
must  be  smuggled  home.  Let  them  be  sent  to  some 
near  place.  Then,  when  your  wife  has  a  headache,  or 
is  out  making  a  call,  or  has  lain  down,  run  the  books 
across  the  frontier  and  threshold,  hastily  undo  them, 
stop  only  for  one  loving  glance  as  you  put  them  away 
in  the  closet,  or  behind  other  books  on  the  shelf,  or  on 
the  topmost  shelf.  Clear  away  the  twrine  and  wrapping- 
paper,  and  every  suspicious  circumstance.     Be  very 


254 


BOOK-STORES,  BOOKS. 


careful  not  to  be  too  kind.  That  often  brings  on  detec- 
tion. Only  the  other  day  we  heard  it  said,  somewhere, 
u  Why,  how  good  you  have  been,  lately.  I  am  really 
afraid  that  you  have  been  carrying  on  mischief  secretly." 
Our  heart  smote  us.  It  was  a  fact.  That  very  day  we 
had  bought  a  few  books  which  M  we  could  not  do  with- 
out." After  a  while,  you  can  bring  out  one  volume, 
accidentally,  and  leave  it  on  the  table.  "'Why,  my 
dear,  what  a  beautiful  book!  Where  did  you  borrow 
it  ?"  You  glance  over  the  newspaper,  with  the  quietest 
tone  you  can  command:  4  That!  oh!  that  is  mine. 
Have  you  not  seen  it  before  ?  It  has  been  in  the  house 
these  two  months  j"  and  you  rush  on  with  anecdote  and 
incident,  and  point  out  the  binding,  and  that  peculiar 
trick  of  gilding,  and  every  thing  else  you  can  think  of; 
but  it  all  will  not  do ;  you  can  not  rub  out  that  roguish, 
arithmetical  smile.  People  may  talk  about  the  equality 
of  the  sexes !  They  are  not  equal.  The  silent  smile 
of  a  sensible,  loving  woman,  will  vanquish  ten  men. 
Of  course  you  repent,  and  in  time  form  a  habit  of  re- 
penting. 

Another  method  which'  will  be  found  peculiarly 
effective,  is,  to  make  a  present  of  some  fine  work,  to 
your  wife.  Of  course,  whether  she  or  you  have  the 
name  of  buying  it,  it  will  go  into  your  collection  and 
be  yours  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  But,  it  stops  re- 
mark in  the  presentation.  A  wife  could  not  reprove 
you  for  so  kindly  thinking  of  her.  No  matter  what 
she  suspects,  she  will  say  nothing.  And  then  if  there 
are  three  or  four  more  works,  which  have  come  home 


BOOK -STOKES,  BOOKS 


255 


with  the  gift-book — they  will  pass  through  the  favor  of 
the  other. 

These  are  pleasures  denied  to  wealth  and  old 
bachelors.  Indeed,  one  cannot  imagine  the  peculiar 
pleasure  of  buying  books,  if  one  is  rich  and  stupid. 
There  must  be  some  pleasure,  or  so  many  would  not  do 
it.  But  the  full  flavor,  the  whole  relish  of  delight  only 
comes  to  those  who  are  so  poor  that  they  must  engineer 
for  every  book.  They  set  down  before  them,  and  be- 
siege them.  They  are  captured.  Each  book  has  a 
secret  history  of  ways  and  means.  It  reminds  you  of 
subtle  devices  by  which  you  insured  and  made  it  yours, 
in  spite  of  poverty  1 


XXII. 

GONE  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

Lenox,  Mass.,  JuIaj^  1854. 

At  length  the  joyful  day  was  come !  Eagerly  wo 
escaped  from  the  glow  and  rage  of  the  town-heat,  as  if 
we  had  been  flying  from  a  burning  city.  We  shut  the 
door,  and  turned  the  key  upon  all  our  cares.  For  we  - 
always  arrange  to  leave  our  burdensome  affairs  behind, 
and  take  nothing  to  the  country  with  us  but  hilarious 
hearts,  contentment,  and  eyes  that  never  tire  of  the 
heavens,  or  the  earth,  that  do  indeed  and  forevermoro 
show  forth  the  glory  of  God  1 

The  stalwart  engine  could  not  rush  fast  enough  for 
our  impatience.  And  when,  at  Bridgeport,  we  branched 
off  upon  the  Housatonic  Eailway,  and  set  our  faces  full 
toward  the  north,  where  the  "hill-country"  lay,  and 
flitting  through  fields  and  patches  of  forest,  our  spirits 
rose  at  every  mile. 

The  film  fell  from  our  eyes ;  no  ceaseless  tasks  stood 
between  us  and  nature;  no  prospective  discourse,  in- 
wardly working,  drew  back  our  outward  sight.  We 
let  go  our  whole  routine  of  duties,  and  they  sank  down 
and  faded  away  as  dreams  do  from  the  face  of  the 
morning.  It  was  all  youth  with  us  now.  At  Newtown 
our  heart  prompted  us  to  get  out,  and  take  a  first  and 
loving  look  of  the  hills  that  here  begin  to  show  moun- 
tainous symptoms.  They  were  doing  extremely  well. 
We  gazed  as  long  as  the  impatient  engine  would  allow 


GONE  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


257 


at  their  tree-tufted  tops,  their  long  green  slopes,  at  the 
quiet  intervales,  in  which  were  snugged  away  many- 
dear  homes  and  houses,  and  inhaled  the  new  and  per- 
fumed air  with  a  full  recognition  of  its  virtues.  The 
very  movement  of  the  air  upon  our  skin  was  plea- 
surable, as  if  spirits  breathed  upon  us. 

It  was  a  day  for  traveling,  cloudy  but  not  sullen. 
The  heaven  was  full  of  those  spirit-like  films  and  evan- 
escent wreaths  that  go  sailing  about  in  an  aimless  way. 
Deeper  in  the  vault  lay  those  mysterious  banks  of 
vapor,  brilliantly  white  upon  their  rounded  outer  edges, 
and  shaded  to  gray  and  leaden  black  in  the  interior. 
They  slowly  changed  from  thrones  to  battlements ;  and 
from  battlements  to  mountains.  Such  mountains  are 
round  about  the  city  of  our  Grod !  Besides  these,  there 
were  shoals  of  flecks  that  rayed  out  like  fans,  or  lay 
stretching  away  like  long  unrolled  scarfs.  It  was  as  if 
some  air-fish  were  shooting  forth,  clothed  with  brilliant 
scales.  In  some  places  the  clouds  lay  in  long  lines, 
compact  and  broad  like  a  mighty  highway,  cast  up  for 
heavenly  chariots  to  run  upon.  Through  the  occasional 
spaces  the  sun  cast  forth  his  fierce  light,  sometimes 
straight  downward,  with  unquenched  heat,  and  at  other 
times  his  beams  fell,  with  long  side-way  stroke,  upon 
some  distant  hill,  or  carried  down  an  atmosphere  of 
light  into  some  stream-fed  valley. 

Thus  we  sped  on  from  station  to  station,  the  hills 
growing  larger  all  the  way,  until,  at  three  o'clock,  we 
reached  Lenox.  But  the  rain  was  there  before  us,  and 
merrily  it  played,  beating  each  leaf  with  its  musical 


258 


GONE  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


drops,  like  a  tiny  drum.  .  Bat  what  is  a  summer  ram 
to  a  Berkshire  farmer?  especially  when  white  rolling 
clouds  from  the  west,  and  clear,  bright  spots  shining 
through,  tell  us  that  fair  weather  is  working  its  way 
through  all  the  tumult  ?  Bright  bay  Charley  was  wait- 
ing for  his  master;  and  our  farm-horses  and  wagon 
(think  of  that!)  were  waiting  for  the  baggage,  and  soon 
we  were  trotting  away,  and  greeting,  as  we  went,  each 
field,  each  stately  elm,  and  round  maple,  and  the  num- 
ber of  greetings  required  were  not  few.  As  we  rose 
along  the  ascending  road,  the  hills  began  to  emerge  on 
every  side,  and  as  we  drew  near  our  dwelling,  up  rose, 
far  in  the  north,  old  Grey-Lock,  the  patriarch  of  a  wide 
family  of  hills,  happily  settled  down  about  him.  As 
far  to  the  south,  dim  and  blue,  the  dome  of  Mount 
Washington  stood,  and  still  stands,  the  head  and  glory 
of  innumerable  and  unnamed  hills.  Between  these 
two  great  northern  and  southern  landmarks,  a  distance 
of  more  than  sixty  miles,  lies  the  Berkshire  valley. 
Not  such  a  valley  as  you  think  of  along  the  Connec- 
ticut,— wide  meadows,  flat  and  fat;  but  such  a  valley 
as  the  ocean  would  be,  if,  when  its  waves  were  running 
tumultuous  and  high,  it  were  suddenly  transfixed  and 
solidified.  The  most  level  portion  of  this  region,  if 
removed  to  Illinois,  would  be  an  eminent  hill.  The 
region  is  a  valley  only  because  the  mountains  on  the 
east  and  on  the  west  are  so  much  higher  than  the  hills 
in  the  intermediate  space.  The  endless  variety  of  such 
a  country  never  ceases  to  astonish  and  please.  At 
every  ten  steps  the  aspect  changes ;  every  variation  of 


GONE  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


259 


atmosphere,  and  therefore  every  hour  of  the  day,  pro* 
duces  new  effects.  It  is  everlasting  company  to  you. 
It  is,  indeed,  just  like  some  choice  companion,  of  rich 
heart,  and  genial  imagination,  never  twice  alike,  in 
mood,  in  conversation,  in  radiant  sobriety,  or  half- 
bright  sadness ;  bold,  tender,  deep,  various  ! 

Not  yet  having  had  leisure  to  build  our  farm-house, 
that  is  to  be,  (for  we  have  resolved  that  it  should  be  a 
farm-house,  and  not  a  mansion,)  we  have  rented  the 
very  comfortable  house  of  our  neighbor  Clark,  next 
adjoining  our  grounds.  We  mention  this  confidentially, 
to  save  further  inquiries.  It  was  to  this  that  we  drove. 
The  rain  continued  diligent.  All  that  trooping  of  white 
clouds  in  the  west;  all  that  opening  and  shutting  of 
bright  spaces,  which  pretended  a  clearing  off — was, 
after  all,  but  some  private  arrangement  among  the 
clouds  for  their  own  comfort.  Here  is  to  be  no  fair 
weather,  and  no  venturing  out  to-night!  But  there 
were  domestic  reasons  for  remaining  in-doors,  in  the 
shape  of  eight  trunks,  four  carpet-bags,  and  sundry 
other  items,  to  be  opened  and  disposed  of.  Besides,  the 
boys,  who  had  been  here  some  weeks  before-hand,  came 
tearing  in  to  see  us,  and  the  brother's  family  were  all 
astir  on  the  same  errand.  There  was  at  least  an  hour 
in  which  words  rained  down  as  copiously  in  the  house 
as  did  the  cloud-drops  without.  Then  came  the  first 
tea,  made  the  more  piquant  by  all  those  little  shifts 
which  precede  a  fall  settling  down;  the  odd  things; 
the  queer  uses  of  strange  things.  Every  body  was 
hunting  for  every  thing,  and  each  zealous  to  bring 


260 


GONE  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


something,  so  that  we  liked  to  have  had  the  whole  con- 
tents of  the  house  on  the  tea-table.  There  is  something 
very  pleasant  in  the  first  meal  which  a  family  takes  in 
a  new  house.  It  should  always  be  an  evening  meal. 
The  later  hours  of  the  day  have  a  softening  influence 
upon  us.  Of  course,  the  parents  take  the  end  seats, 
then  the  children  are  to  be  appointed  to  their  posts, 
then  all  join  with  an  unusual  heartiness  in  the  blessing 
which  is  asked  of  God  upon  the  food,  and  that  heart 
were  strangely  remiss  that  did  not  ask  a  blessing  upon 
the  house,  upon  the  household,  and  upon  the  whole 
summer's  hoped-for  joy. 

The  meal  proceeds.  This  butter  is  from  our  cows. 
This  is  cheese  which  grandmother  made.  The  bread  is 
so  white,  the  currants  are  so  red,  the  shaved-beef  so 
country  like,  the  tea  just  as  good  as  city  tea.  The 
boys  are  bursting  to  narrate  the  wonders  of  their  expe- 
rience. The  woodchucks,  the  squirrels,  the  hawks, 
were  all  chronicled ;  the  rides,  the  accidents,  the  hen's 
nests  found,  and  a  world  of  eager  news,  were  duly  set 
forth.  Each  boy  was  eager  to  go  forth  and  show  us 
all  the  wonders  of  the  new  place ;  the  barn,  the  wood- 
house,  the  well,  the  great  elm  tree,  the  cellar,  the  gar- 
ret, the  orchard,  and  the  garden. 

The  evening  grows  darker.  The  trees  wave  their 
clammy  leaves,  dripping  with  wet,  to  each  sighing  of 
the  moist  and  fitful  wind.  Now  it  swells  and  beats  the 
window-frames  with  a  slashing  sound;  then  it  dies 
away,  and  leaves  only  the  drowsy  murmur  of  incessant 
drops  pattering  upon  innumerable  leaves,  filling  the  air 


GONE  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


2(31 


with  somnolence.  At  nine  o'clock  every  yawning  mor- 
tal wends  to  bed.  No  crickets  chirped,  no  dogs>  near 
or  distant,  barked ;  no  cows  lowed,  no  wagons  rolled 
past,  no  foot-fall  came  from  the  road.  It  was  all  dark 
out  of  doors,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  droning 
rain  that  hummed  among  the  leaves,  all  night  long, 
and  the  modest  clock  that  hardly  dared  to  tick  out  loud. 

This  morning  came  up  in  clouds,  the  clouds  grew  to 
mist,  and  the  mist  rolled  out  of  the  valley,  and  hung 
ragged  and  wild  upon  the  mountain  side.  All  the  trees 
do  clap  their  hands  in  the  merry  wrind  that  now,  un- 
burdened of  its  moisture,  runs  nimbly  through  the 
sunny  air.  We  open  the  front  door,  and  sit  upon  its 
threshold.  We  look  out  under  the  maple  trees  that 
shade  the  yard,  over  fields,  across  to  the  mountain 
sides,  that  now  stand  in  the  freshest,  deepest  green.  We 
take  our  book,  and  holding  it  with  folded  hands  behind 
us,  we  walk,  with  uncovered  head,  up  and  down  the 
road  before  the  house,  beneath  the  trembling  shadows 
which  the  maples  cast  westward — shadows  that  play 
upon  the  ground  in  gold  and  dark,  as  the  small  wind 
opens  and  shuts  the  spaces  of  the  tree  to  the  sunlight ! 
This  is  perfect  rest.  The  ear  is  full  of  birds7  notes,  of 
insects'  hum,  of  the  barn -yard  clack  of  hens  and  peep- 
ing chickens;  the  eye  is  full  of  noble  outlined  hills, 
of  meadow-growing  trees,  of  grass  glancing  with  light 
shot  from  a  million  dew-drops,  and  of  the  great  heav- 
enly arch,  unstained  with  cloud,  from  side  to  side  with- 
out a  mote  or  film:  filled  with  silent,  golden  ether, 
which  surely  descends  on  such  a  morning  as  this  from 


262 


GONE  TO  THE  COUNTRY, 


the  very  hills  of  heaven.  Angels  have  flown  through 
it,  and  exhaled  their  joys,  as  flowers  leave  their  per- 
fumes in  the  evening  air.  Thus  to  walk,  to  read  now 
and  then  some  noble  passage  of  some  great  heart,  to 
fall  off'  again  to  musing,  to  read  again  half  aloud  or  in 
a  murmuring  whisper  some  holy  poetry,  this  it  is  to  be 
transcendently  happy.  I  say  holy  poetry,  for  when 
men  speak  of  truth  with  their  earthly  thoughts,  it  is 
but  prose ;  but  when  they  speak  truths  from  their 
spiritual,  and  with  such  efflorescent  words  as  shall  be 
to  the  thinking  what  dew-beads  are  to  grass  and 
flowers,  that  is  poetry.  It  is  after  long  labor  that  such 
periods  of  rest  become  doubly  sweet.  For  unwearied 
hours  one  drifts  about  among  gentle,  joyous  sensations 
or  thoughts,  as  gossamers  or  downy  seeds  float  about 
in  the  air,  moved  only  by  the  impulses  of  the  coquet- 
ting wind.  Most  happily  planted  here,  we  shall  await 
September.  And  if,  in  the  spheres  whence  the  months 
issue,  or  along  that  airy  way  by  which  they  travel, 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  breaking  down,  or  detention, 
may  September  experience  it,  and  be  held  back  long 
after  her  time  I 


XXIII. 


DREAM-CULTURE. 

Lenox,  August,  10,  1854. 

There  is  something  in  the  owning  of  a  piece  of 
ground,  which  affects  me  as  did  the  old  ruins  of  Eng- 
land. I  am  free  to  confess  that  the  value  of  a  farm  is 
not  chiefly  in  its  crops  of  cereal  grain,  its  orchards  of 
fruit,  and  in  its  herds;  but  in  those  larger  and  more 
easily  reapt  harvests  of  associations,  fancies,  and  dreamy 
broodings  which'  it  begets.  From  boyhood  I  have 
associated  classical  civic  virtues  and  old  heroic  integrity 
with  the  soil.  No  one  who  has  peopled  his  young 
brain  with  the  fancies  of  Grecian  mythology,  but  comes 
to  feel  a  certain  magical  sanctity  for  the  earth.  The 
very  smell  of  fresh-turned  earth  brings  up  as  many 
dreams  and  visions  of  the  country  as  sandal-wood  does 
of  oriental  scenes.  At  any  rate,  I  feel,  in  walking 
under  these  trees  and  about  these  slopes,  something  of 
that  enchantment  of  the  vague  and  mysterious  glimpses 
of  the  past,  which  I  once  felt  about  the  ruins  of  Kenil- 
worth  Castle.  For  thousands  of  years  this  piece  of 
ground  hath  wrought  its  tasks.  Old  slumberous  forests 
used  to  darken  it;  innumerable  deer  have  trampled 
across  it ;  foxes  have  blinked  through  its  bushes,  and 
wolves  have  howled  and  growled  as  they  pattered 
along  its  rustling  leaves  with  empty  maws.  How  many 
birds ;  how  many  flocks  of  pigeons,  thousands  of  years 
ago ;  how  many  hawks  dashing  wildly  among  them  ; 


264 


DREAM-CULTURE. 


how  many  insects,  nocturnal  and  diurnal ;  how  many 
mailed  bugs,  and  limber  serpents,  gliding  among  mossj* 
stones,  have  had  possession  here,  before  my  day!  It 
will  not  be  long  before  I  too  shall  be  as  wasted  and 
recordless  as  they. 

Doubtless  the  Indians  made  this  a  favorite  resort. 
Their  sense  of  beauty  in  natural  scenery  is  proverbial. 
Where  else,  in  all  this  region,  could  they  find  a  more 
glorious  amphitheater?  But  thick-studded  forests  may 
have  hidden  from  them  this  scenic  glory,  and  left  it  to 
solace  another  race.  I  walk  over  the  ground  wonder- 
ing what  lore  of  wild  history  I  should  read  if  all  that 
ever  lived  upon  this  round  and  sloping  hill  had  left  an 
invisible  record,  unreadable  except  by  such  eyes  as 
mine,  that  seeing,  see  not,  and,  not  seeing,  do  plainly 
see. 

Then,  while  I  stand  upon  the  crowning  point  of  the 
hill,  from  which  I  can  behold  every  foot  of  the  hundred 
acres,  and  think  what  is  going  on,  what  gigantic  powers 
are  silently  working,  I  feel  as  if  all  the  workmanship 
that  was  stored  in  the  Crystal  Palace  was  not  to  be 
compared  with  the  subtle  machinery  all  over  this 
round.  WhLt  chemists  could  find  solvents  to  liquefy 
these  rocks  ?  But  soft  rains  and  roots  small  as  threads 
dissolve  them  and  re-compose  them  into  stems  and 
leaves.  What  an  uproar,  as  if  a  hundred  stone  quarries 
were  being  wrought,  if  one  should  attempt  to  crush 
with  hammers  all  the  flint  and  quartz  which  the  stroke 
of  the  dew  powders  noiselessly !  All  this  turf  is  but  a 
camp  of  soldier-roots,  that  wage  their  battle  upon  the 


DREAM- CULTURE. 


265 


elements  with  endless  victory.  There  is  a  greater 
marvel  in  this  deliant  thistle,  which  wearies  the  farmer's 
wits,  taxed  for  its  extermination,  than  in  all  the  reposi- 
tories of  New  York  or  London.  And  these  mighty 
treq^  how  easily  do  they  pump  up  and  sustain  supplies 
of  moisture  that  it  would  require  scores  of  rattling 
engines  to  lift !  This  farm,  it  is  a  vast  laboratory,  full 
of  expert  chemists.  It  is  a  vast  shop,  full  of  noiseless 
machinists.  And  all  this  is  mine !  These  rocks,  that 
lie  in  bulk  under  the  pasture-trees,  and  all  this  moss 
that  loves  to  nestle  in  its  crevices,  and  clasp  the  invisi- 
ble projections  with  its  little  clinging  hands,  and  all 
these  ferns  and  sumach,  these  springs  and  trickling 
issues,  are  mine ! 

Let  me  not  be  puffed  up  with  sudden  wealth !  Let 
me  rule  discreetly  among  my  tenants.  Let  me  see 
what  tribes  are  mine.  There  are  the  black  and  glossy 
crickets,  the  gray  crickets,  the  grasshoppers  of  every 
shape  and  hue,  the  silent,  prudent  toad,  type  of  con- 
servative wisdom,  wise-looking,  but  slow-hopping;  the 
butterflies  by  day,  and  the  moth  and  millers  by 
night ;  all  birds  —  wrens,  sparrows,  king-birds,  blue- 
birds, robins,  and  those  unnamed  warblers  that  make 
the  forests  sad  with  their  melancholy  whistle.  Be- 
sides these,  who  can  register  the  sappers  and  miners 
that  are  always  at  work  in  the  soil :  angle- worms, 
white  grubs,  and  bugs  that  carry  pick  and  shovel  in 
the  head?  "Who  can  muster  all  the  mice  that  nest 
in  the  barn  or  nibble  in  the  stubble-field,  and  all  the 
beetles  that  sing  base  in  the  wood's  edge  to  the  shrill 
12 


266  DREAM-CULTURE. 

treble  of  gnats  and  myriad  musquitoes?  These  all 
are  mine! 

Are  they  mine?  Is  it  my  eye  and  my  hand  that 
mark  their  paths  and  circuits  ?  Do  they  hold  their  life 
from  me,  or  do  I  give  them  their  food  in  due  sqgpn  ? 
Vastly  as  my  bulk  is  greater  than  theirs,  am  I  so  much 
superior  that  I  can  despise,  or  even  not  admire?  Where 
is  the  strength  of  muscle  by  which  I  can  spring  fifty 
times  the  length  of  my  body?  That  grasshopper's 
thigh  lords  it  over  mine.  Spring  up  now  in  the  eve- 
ning air,  and  fly  toward  the  lights  that  wink  from 
yonder  hill-side !  Ten  million  wings  of  despised  flies 
and  useless  insects  are  mightier  than  hand  or  foot  of 
mine.  Each  mortal  thing  carries  some  quality  of  dis- 
tinguishing excellence  by  which  it  may  glory,  and  say, 
"In  this,  I  am  first  in  all  the  world!" 

Since  the  same  hand  made  me  that  made  them,  and 
the  same  care  feeds  them  that  spreads  my  board,  let 
there  be  fellowship  between  us.  There  is.  I  have 
signed  articles  of  peace  even  with  the  abdominal 
spiders,  who  carry  their  fleece  in  their  belly,  and  not 
on  their  back.  It  is  agreed  that  they  shall  not  cross 
the  Danube  of  my  doors,  and  I,  on  the  other  hand,  will 
let  them  camp  down,  without  wanton  disturbance,  in 
my  whole  domain  beside !  I,  too,  am  but  an  insect  on 
a  larger  scale.  Are  there  not  those  who  tread  with 
unsounding  feet  through  the  invisible  air,  of  being  so 
vast,  that  I  seem  to  them  but  a  mite,  a  flitting  insect  ? 
And  of  capacities  so  noble  and  eminent,  that  all  the 
stores  which  I  could  bring  of  thought  and  feeling  to 


r 


DREAM-CULTURE. 


267 


them  would  be  but  as  the  communing  of  a  grasshopper 
with  me,  or  the  chirp  of  a  sparrow  ? 

No.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  true  greatness  to  be 
exclusive  and  arrogant.  If  such  noble  shadows  fill  the 
realm,  it  is  their  nature  to  condescend  and  to  spread 
their  power  abroad  for  the  loving  protection  of  those 
whose  childhood  is  little,  but  whose  immortal  manhood 
shall  yet,  through  their  kind  teaching,  stand  unabashed, 
and  not  ashamed,  in  the  very  royalty  of  heaven.  Only 
vulgar  natures  employ  their  superiority  to  task  and 
burden  weaker  natures.  He  whose  genius  and  wisdom 
are  but  instruments  of  oppression,  however  covered 
and  softened  with  lying  names,  is  the  beginning  of  a 
monster.  The  line  that  divides  between  the  animal 
and  the  divine  is  the  line  of  suffering.  The  animal,  for 
its  own  pleasure,  inflicts  suffering.  The  divine  endures 
suffering  for  another's  pleasure.  Not  then  when  he 
went  up  to  the  proportions  of  original  glory  was  Christ 
the  greatest;  but  when  he  descended,  and  wore  our 
form,  and  bore  our  sins  and  sorrows,  that  by  his  stripes 
we  might  be  healed ! 

I  have  no  vicarious  mission  for  these  populous 
insects.  But  I  will  at  least  not  despise  their  littleness 
nor  trample  upon  their  lives.  Yet,  how  may  I  spare 
them  ?  At  every  step  I  must  needs  crush  scores,  and 
leave  the  wounded  in  my  path  !  Already  I  have  lost  my 
patience  with  that  intolerable  fly,  and  slapped  him  out 
of  being,  and  breathed  out  fiery  vengeance  against 
those  mean  conspirators  that,  night  and  day,  suck  my 
blood,  hypocritically  singing  a  grace  before  their  meal  I 


268 


DREAM-CULTURE. 


The  chief  use  of  a  farm,  if  it  be  well  selected,  and 
of  a  proper  soil,  is,  to  lie  down  upon.  Mine  is  an 
excellent  farm  for  such  uses,  and  I  thus  cultivate  it 
every  day.  Large  crops  are  the  consequence,  of  great 
delight  and  fancies  more  than  the  brain  can  hold.  My 
industry  is  exemplary.  Though  but  a  week  here,  I 
have  lain  down  more  hours  and  in  more  places  than 
that  hard-working  brother  of  mine  in  the  whole  year 
that  he  has  dwelt  here.  Strange  that  industrious  lying 
down  should  come  so  naturally  to  me,  and  standing  up 
and  lazing  about  after  the  plow  or  behind  his  scythe, 
so  naturally  to  him!  My  eyes  against  his  feet!  It 
takes  me  but  a  second  to  run  down  that  eastern  slope, 
across  the  meadow,  over  the  road,  up  to  that  long  hill- 
side, (which  the  benevolent  Mr.  Dorr  is  so  beautifully 
planting  with  shrubbery  for  my  sake — blessings  on 
him !)  but  his  feet  could  not  perform  the  task  in  less 
than  ten  minutes.  I  can  spring  from  Grey  Lock  in  the 
north,  through  the  hazy  air,  over  the  wide  sixty  miles 
to  the  dome  of  the  Taconic  mountains  in  the  south,  by 
a  simple  roll  of  the  eye-ball,  a  mere  contraction  of  a 
few  muscles.  Now  let  any  one  try  it  with  their  feet, 
and  two  days  would  scant  suffice!  With  my  head  I 
can  sow  the  ground  with  glorious  harvests ;  I  can  build 
barns,  fill  them  with  silky  cows  and  nimble  horses ;  I 
can  pasture  a  thousand  sheep,  run  innumerable  furrows, 
sow  every  sort  of  seed,  rear  up  forests  just  wherever 
the  eye  longs  for  them,  build  my  house,  like  Solomon's 
Temple,  without  the  sound  of  a  hammer.  Ah !  mighty 
worker  is  the  head !    These  farmers  that  use  the  foot, 


DREAM-CULTURE. 


269 


and  the  hand,  are  much  to  be  pitied.  I  can  change  my 
structures  every  day,  without  expense.  I  can  enlarge 
that  gem  of  a  lake  that  lies  yonder,  twinkling  and  rip- 
pling in  the  sunlight.  I  can  pile  up  rocks  where  they 
ought  to  have  been  found,  for  landscape  effect,  and 
clothe  them  with  the  very  vines  that  ought  to  grow 
over  them.  I  can  transplant  every  tree  that  I  meet  in 
my  rides,  and  put  it  near  my  house  without  the  droop- 
ing of  a  leaf. 

But  of  what  use  is  all  this  fanciful  using  of  the  head  ? 
It  is  a  mere  waste  of  precious  time ! 

But,  if  it  gives  great  delight,  if  it  keeps  the  soul 
awake,  sweet  thoughts  alive  and  sordid  thoughts  dead, 
if  it  brings  one  a  little  out  of  conceit  with  hard  econo- 
mies, and  penurious  reality,  and  stingy  self-conceit ;  if 
it  be  like  a  bath  to  the  soul,  in  which  it  washes  away 
the  grime  of  human  contacts,  and  the  sweat  and  dust 
of  life  among  selfish,  sordid  men ;  if  it  makes  the 
thoughts  more  supple  to  climb  along  the  ways  where 
spiritual  fruits  do  grow ;  and  especially,  if  it  introduces 
the  soul  to  a  fuller  conviction  of  the  Great  Unseen,  and 
teaches  it  to  esteem  the  visible  as  less  real  than  things 
which  no  eye  can  see,  or  hands  handle,  it  will  have 
answered  a  purpose  which  is  in  vain  sought  among 
stupid  conventionalities. 

At  any  rate,  such  a  discourse  of  the  thoughts  with 
things  that  are  beautiful,  and  such  an  opening  of  the 
soul  to  things  which  are  sweet-breathed,  will  make  one 
joyful  at  the  time  and  tranquil  thereafter.  And  if  one 
fully  believes  that  the  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  that  God 


270 


DREAM-CULTURE 


yet  walks  among  leaves,  and  trees,  in  the  cool  of  the 
day,  he  will  not  easily  be  persuaded  to  cast  away  the 
belief  that  all  these  vagaries  and  wild  communings  are 
but  those  of  a  child  in  his  father's  house,  and  that  the 
secret  springs  of  joy  which  they  open  are  touched  of 
God! 


XXIV. 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 

August  17,  1854. 

Every  one  who  has  read  the  life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
well  remembers  his  love  of  trees.  He  used  to  say  that, 
of  all  his  compositions,  he  was  the  most  proud  of  his 
compositions — for  making  trees  grow.  There  is  yet  at 
East-Hampton,  on  Long  Island,  flourishing  in  a  hearty 
age,  an  orchard  set  out  by  the  hands  of  my  father 
And  he  used  often  to  say,  that,  after  an  absence 
from  home,  the  first  impulse,  after  greeting  his  own 
family,  was  to  go  out  and  examine  each  tree  in  his 
orchard,  from  root  to  top.  No  man  that  ever  planted 
a  tree  or  loved  one  but  knows  how  to  sympathize  with 
this  feeling.  A  tree  that  you  have  planted  is  born  to  you. 
It  becomes  a  member  of  your  family,  and  looks  to  you 
as  a  child  for  care  and  love.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
spends  his  summer  months  upon  a  beautiful  farm  near 
Pittsfield,  on  which  are  half  a  hundred  acres  of  the 
original  forest-trees,  some  of  them  doubtless  five  hun- 
dred years  old;  trees  that  heard  the  Revolutionary 
cannon,  (or  heard  of  them.)  that  heard  before  that,  the 
crack  of  the  rifle  in  early  colonial  Indian  wars,  when 
Miahcomo,  with  his  fugitive  Pequots,  took  refuge  in 
the  Berkshire  hills.  It  is  said  that  Dr.  Holmes  has 
measured  with  a  tape-line  every  tree  on  his  place,  and 
knows  each  one  of  them  with  intimate  personal  ac- 
quaintance.   If  he  has  not,  he  ought  to  do  it. 


272 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


To  the  great  tree-loving  fraternity  we  belong.  We  lo\  e 
trees  with  universal  and  unfeigned  love,  and  all  things 
that  do  grow  under  them,  or  around  them — the  whole 
leaf  and  root  tribe !  Not  alone  when  they  are  in  their 
glory,  but  in  whatever  state  they  are — in  leaf,  or  rimed 
with  frost,  or  powdered  with  snow,  or  crystal-sheathed 
in  ice,  or  in  severe  outline  stripped  and  bare  against  a 
November  sky — we  love  them.  Our  heart  warms  at 
the  sight  of  even  a  board  or  a  log.  A  lumber-yard  is 
better  than  nothing.  The  smell  of  wood,  at  least,  is 
there ;  the  savory  fragrance  of  resin,  as  sweet  as  myrrh 
and  frankincense  ever  was  to  a  Jew.  If  we  can  get 
nothing  better,  we  love  to  read  over  the  names  of  trees 
in  a  catalogue.  Many  an  hour  have  we  sat  at  night, 
when,  after  exciting  work,  we  needed  to  be  quieted, 
and  read  nurserymen's  catalogues,  and  Loudon's  Ency- 
clopedias, and  Arboretum,  until  the  smell  of  the  woods 
exhaled  from  the  page,  and  the  sound  of  leaves  was  in 
our  ears,  and  sylvan  glades  opened  to  our  eyes  that 
would  have  made  old  Chaucer  laugh  and  indite  a  rap- 
turous rush  of  lines. 

But  how  much  more  do  we  love  trees  in  all  their 
summer  pomp  and  plenitude.  Not  for  their  names  and 
affinities,  not  for  their  secret  physiology  and  as  material 
for  science ;  not  for  any  reason  that  we  can  give,  except 
that  when  with  them  we  are  happy.  ,  The  eye  is  full, 
the  ear  is  full,  the  whole  sense  and  all  the  tastes 
solaced,  and  our  whole  nature  rejoices  with  that  various 
and  full  happiness  which  one  has  when  the  soul  is  sus- 
pended in  the  midst  of  Beethoven's  symphonies,  and 


A  WALK  AMONG  TKEES. 


273 


is  lifted  hither  and  thither,  as  if  blown  by  sweet  sounds 
through  the  airy  passages  of  a  full  heavenly  dream. 

Our  first  excursion  in  Lenox  was  one  of  salutation  to 
our  notable  trees.  We  had  a  nervous  anxiety  to  see 
that  the  ax  had  not  hewn,  nor  the  lightning  struck 
them ;  that  no  worm  had  gnawed  at  the  root,  or  cattle 
at  the  trunk ;  that  their  branches  were  not  broken,  nor 
their  leaves  failing  from  drought.  We  found  them  all 
standing  in  their  uprightness.  They  lifted  up  their 
heads  toward  heaven,  and  sent  down  to  us  from  all 
their  boughs  a  leafy  whisper  of  recognition  and  affec- 
tion. Blessed  be  the  dew  that  cools  their  evening 
leaves,  and  the  rains  that  quench  their  daily  thirst! 
May  the  storm  be  as  merciful  to  them  when,  in  winter, 
it  roars  through  their  branches,  as  is  a  harper  to  his 
harp !  Let  the  snow  lie  lightly  on  their  boughs,  and 
long  hence  be  the  summer  that  shall  find  no  leaves  to 
clothe  these  nobles  of  the  pasture ! 

First  in  our  regard,  as  it  is  first  in  the  whole  nobility 
of  trees,  stands  the  white  elm,  no  less  esteemed  because 
it  is  an  American  tree ;  known  abroad  only  by  importa- 
tion, and  never  seen  in  all  its  magnificence,  except  in 
our  own  valleys.  The  old  oaks  of  England  are  very 
excellent  in  their  way,  gnarled  and  rugged.  The  elm 
has  strength  as  significant  as  they,  and  a  grace,  a  roy- 
alty, which  leaves  the  oak  like  a  boor  in  comparison. 
Had  the  elm  been  an  English  tree,  and  had  Chaucer 
seen  and  loved  and  sung  it ;  had  Shakspeare,  and  every 
English  poet,  hung  some  garlands  upon  it,  it  would 
have  lifted  up  its  head  now,  not  only  the  noblest  of  all 
12* 


274 


A  WALK  AMOJSG  TREES 


growing  things,  but  enshrined  in  a  thousand  rich  asso- 
ciations of  history  and  literature. 

Who  ever  sees  a  hawthorn  or  a  sweet-brier  (the 
eglantine)  that  his  thoughts  do  not,  like  a  bolt  of  light, 
burst  through  ranks  of  poets,  and  ranges  of  sparkling 
conceits  which  have  been  born  since  England  had  a 
written  language,  and  of  which  the  rose,  the  willow, 
the  eglantine,  the  hawthorn,  and  other  scores  of  vines  or 
trees,  have  been  the  cause,  as  they  are  now  and  for  ever- 
more the  suggestions  and  remembrancers?  "Who  ever 
looks  upon  an  oak,  and  does  not  think  of  navies ;  of  . 
storms ;  of  battles  on  the  ocean ;  of  the  noble  lyrics  of 
the  sea;  of  English  glades;  of  the  fugitive  Charles, 
the  tree-mounted  monarch ;  of  the  Herne  oak ;  of  parka 
and  forests ;  of  Eobin  Hood  and  his  merry  men,  Friar 
Tuck  not  excepted ;  of  old  baronial  halls  with  mellow 
light  streaming  through  diamond-shaped  panes  upon 
oaken  floors,  and  of  carved  oaken  wainscotings  ?  And 
who  that  has  ever  traveled  in  English  second-class 
cushionless  cars  has  not  other  and  less  genial  remem- 
brances of  the  enduring  solidity  of  the  impervious, 
unelastic  oak  ? 

One  stalwart  oak  I  have,  and  only  one,  yet  dis- 
covered. On  my  west  line  is  a  fringe  of  forest,  through 
which  rushes  in  spring,  trickles  in  early  summer,  and 
dies  out  entirely  in  August,  the  issues  of  a  noble  spring 
from  the  near  hill-side.  On  the  eastern  edge  of  this 
belt  of  trees  stands  the  monarchical  oak,  wide-branching 
on  the  east  toward  the  open  pasture  and  the  free  light, 
but  on  its  western  side  Jean  and  branchless,  from  the 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


275 


pressure  of  neighboring  trees ;  for  trees,  like  men,  can 
not  grow  to  the  real  nature  that  is  in  them  when 
crowded  by  too  much  society.  Both  need  to  be  touched 
on  every  side  by  sun  and  air,  and  by  nothing  else,  if 
they  are  to  be  rounded  out  into  full  symmetry.  Grow- 
ing right  up  by  its  side,  and  through  its  branches,  is  a 
long  wifely  elm — beauty  and  grace  imbosomed  by 
strength.  Their  leaves  come  and  go  together,  and  all 
the  summer  long  they  mingle  their  rustling  harmonies. 
Their  roots  pasture  in  the  same  soil ;  nor  could  either 
of  them  be  hewn  down  without  tearing  away  the 
branches  and  marring  the  beauty  of  the  other.  And  a 
tree,  when  thoroughly  disbranched,  may,  by  time  and 
care,  regain  its  health  again,  but  never  its  beauty. 

Under  this  oak  I  love  to  sit  and  hear  all  the  things 
which  its  leaves  have  to  tell.  No  printed  leaves  have 
more  treasures  of  history  or  of  literature  to  those  who 
know  how  to  listen.  But,  if  clouds  kindly  shield  us 
from  the  sun,  we  love  as  well  to  couch  down  on  the 
grass  some  thirty  yards  off,  and  amidst  the  fragrant 
smell  of  crushed  herbs,  to  watch  the  fancies  of  the  trees 
and  clouds.  The  roguish  winds  will  never  be  done 
teasing  the  leaves,  that  run  away  and  come  back,  with 
nimble  playfulness.  Now  and  then,  a  stronger  puff 
dashes  up  the  leaves,  showing  the  downy  under-sur- 
faces  that  flash  white  all  along  the  up-blown  and  tremu- 
lous forest-edge.  Now  the  wind  draws  back  his  breath, 
and  all  the  woods  are  still.  Then,  some  single  leaf  is 
tickled,  and  quivers  all  alone.  I  am  sure  there  is  no 
wind.    The  other  leaves  about  it  are  still.    Where  it 


276  A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 

gets  its  motion  1  can  not  tell,  but  there  it  goes  fanning 
itself,  and  restless  among  its  sober  fellows.  By  and  by 
one  or  two  others  catch  the  impulse.  The  rest  hold  out 
a  moment,  but  soon  catching  the  contagious  merriment, 
away  goes  the  whole  tree  and  all  its  neighbors,  the 
leaves  running  in  ripples  all  down  the  forest-side.  I 
expect  almost  to  hear  them  laugh  out  loud. 

A  stroke  of  wind  upon  the  forest,  indolently  swelling 
and  subsiding,  is  like  a  stroke  upon  a  hive  of  bees,  for 
sound;  and  like  stirring  a  fire  full  of  sparks,  for  up- 
springing  thoughts  and  ideal  suggestions.  The  melo- 
dious whirl  draws  out  a  flitting  swarm  of  sweet  images 
that  play  before  the  eye  like  those  evening  troops  of 
gauzy  insects  that  hang  in  the  air  between  you  and  the 
sun,  and  pipe  their  own  music,  and  flit  in  airy  rounds 
of  mingled  dance  as  if  the  whole  errand  of  their  lives 
was  to  swing  in  mazes  of  sweet  music. 

Different  species  of  trees  move  their  leaves  very  dif- 
ferently, so  that  one  may  sometimes  tell  by  the  motion 
of  shadows  on  the  ground,  if  he  be  too  indolent  to  look 
up,  under  what  kind  of  tree  he  is  dozing.  On  the  tulip- 
tree — (which  has  the  finest  name  that  ever  tree  had, 
making  the  very  pronouncing  of  its  name  almost  like 
the  utterance  of  a  strain  of  music — liriodendron  tulipi- 
/era) — on  the  tulip  tree,  the  aspen,  and  on  all  native 
poplars,  the  leaves  are  apparently  Anglo-Saxon,  or  Ger- 
manic, having  an  intense-  individualism.  Each  one 
moves  to  suit  itself.  Under  the  same  wind  one  is  trill- 
ing up  and  down,  another  is  whirling,  another  slowly 
vibrating  right  and  left,  and  others  still,  quieting  them- 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES 


277 


selves  to  sleep,  as  a  mother  gently  pats  her  slumbering 
child;  and  each  one  intent  upon  amotion  of  its  own. 
Sometimes  other  trees  have  single  frisky  leaves,  but, 
usually,  the  oaks,  maples,  beeches,  have  community  of 
motion.  They  are  all  acting  together,  or  all  are  alike 
still. 

What  is  sweeter  than  a  murmur  of  leaves,  unless 
it  be  the  musical  gurgling  of  water  that  runs  secretly, 
and  cuts  under  the  roots  of  these  trees,  and  makes 
little  bubbling  pools  that  laugh  to  see  the  drops  stum- 
ble over  the  root  and  plump  down  into  its  bosom ! 
In  such  nooks  could  trout  lie.  Unless  ye  would 
become  mermaids,  keep  far  from  such  places,  all  in- 
nocent grasshoppers,  and  all  ebony  crickets!  Do  not 
believe  in  appearances.  You  peer  over  and  know 
that  there  is  no  danger.  You  can  see  the  radiant 
gravel.  You  know  that  no  enemy  lurks  in  that  fairy 
pool.  You  can  see  every  nook  and  corner  of  it,  and  it 
is  as  sweet  a  bathing  pool  as  ever  was  swum  by  long- 
legged  grasshoppers.  Over  the  root  comes  a  butterfly 
with  both  sails  a  little  drabbled,  and  quicker  than  light 
he  is  plucked  down,  leaving  three  or  four  bubbles 
behind  him,  fit  emblems  of  a  butterfly's  life.  There ! 
did  I  not  tell  yQU  ?  Now  go  away  all  maiden  crickets 
and  grasshoppers!  These  fair  surfaces,  so  pure,  so 
crystalline,  so  surely  safe,  have  a  trout  somewhere  in 
them  lying  in  wait  for  you ! 

But  what  if  one  sits  between  both  kinds  of  music, 
leaves  above  and  water  below?  What  if  birds  are 
among  the  leaves,  sending  out  random  calls,  far-piercing 


278 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


and  sweet,  as  if  they  were  lovers,  saying,  "  My  dear,  are 
you  there  ?"  If  you  are  half  reclining  upon  a  cushion 
of  fresh  new  moss,  that  swells  up  between  the  many- 
plied  and  twisted  roots  of  a  huge  beech  tree,  and  if 
you  have  been  there  half  an  hour  without  moving,  and 
if  you  will  still  keep  motionless,  you  may  see  what 
they  who  only  walk  through  forests  never  see. 

Yonder  is  a  red  squirrel  on  the  ground,  utterly  with- 
out fear,  and  prying  about  in  that  pert  and-  nimble 
way  that  always  makes  me  laugh.  They  are  so  proud 
of  their  tails  too!  They  always  hold  them  up,  and 
coquette  with  them  as  a  lady  twirls  and  flourishes  her 
fan.  And  though  when  running  on  the  ground,  or 
peeping  about  for  seeds,  they  trail  them  at  full  length, 
yet  they  never  sit  down  for  a  moment  without  closing 
up  this  important  member  as  if  they  feared  that  some- 
thing would  step  on  it.  If  you  lie  down,  you  may  now 
and  then  see  gray  squirrels  in  the  tops  of  trees,  play- 
ing with  great  glee,  and  quite  as  supple  as  their  smaller 
kindred.  They  travel  along  a  forest  top,  springing 
from  branch  to  branch  almost  as  easily  as  a  man 
walks  across  a  meadow. 

But  we  must  enjoy  the  sight  of  birds  that  come  down 
on  to  the  ground,  inquiring  after  their  dinner.  A  bird 
is  the  perfection  of  grace,  of  motion,  of  symmetry  of 
form,  and  of  personal  neatness.  Their  walk  is  so  comical 
when  they  do  walk,  and  their  hop,  if  hopping  is  their 
preference,  is  so  agile  and  pretty,  their  habit  of  prying 
under  leaves,  of  looking  into  crevices,  of  searching  the 
axils  of  leaves  for  a  chance  morsel  that  mav  have 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


279 


been  put  away  there,  keeps  one  that  watches  in  a  per- 
petual smile. 

But,  to  return  to  the  leaves,  our  settled  conviction  is, 
that  it  is  best  for  every  leaf  to  use  its  own  stem  in  its 
own  way ;  and  for  every  tree  to  follow  its  own  inward 
impulse,  upward,  outward,  in  form  and  motion  of  leaf, 
twig,  bough,  and  trunk.  Where  trees  can  not  help 
themselves,  we  should  advise  them  to  grow  in  forests, 
long- drawn  and  lean,  with  no  side-branches,  but  only  a 
top,  spread  to  the  sun,  far  up.  Thus  growing,  they 
will  hold  each  other  up;  and,  being  shallow-rooted, 
resist  the  storm  by  their  common  strength.  Thus  do 
men  in  cities,  and  it  will  not  injure  trees  any  more 
than  it  doth  men.  They  will  be  good  for  timber,  for 
fuel,  and  for  solitude  of  shades.  But  if  it  be  given 
to  a  tree  to  stand  out  where  the  east  and  the  west,  the 
north  and  the  south,  do  all  look  at  it  at  once,  each  one 
giving  it  gifts  of  beauty,  rounding  it  up  into  a  mighty 
tower  of  strength,  so  let  it  stand  to  tell  the  world  what 
God  thought  of  when  he  first  tnougnt  of  a  tree ! 

Thus  do  you  stand,  noble  elms !  Lifted  up  so  high 
are  your  topmost  boughs,  that  no  indolent  birds  care  to 
seek  you ;  and  only  those  of  nimble  wings,  and  they  with 
unwonted  beat,  that  love  exertion,  and  aspire  to  sing 
where  none  sing  higher. — Aspiration !  so  Heaven  gives 
it  pure  as  flames  to  the  noble  bosom.  But  debased 
with  passion  and  selfishness  it  comes  to  be  only  Am- 
bition ! 

It  was  in  the  presence  of  this  pasture-elm,  which  we 
name  the  Queen,  that  we  first  felt  to  our  very  marrow, 


280 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


that  we  had  indeed  become  owners  of  the  soil !  It  was 
with  a  feeling  of  awe  that  we  looked  up  into  its  face, 
and  when  I  whispered  to  myself,  This  is  mine,  there 
was  a  shrinking  as  if  there  were  sacrilege  in  the  very 
thought  of  property  in  such  a  creature  of  God  as  this 
cathedral-topped  tree!  Does  a  man  bare  his  head  in 
some  old  church  ?  So  did  I,  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  this  regal  tree,  and  looking  up  into  that  completed 
glory,  at  which  three  hundred  years  have  been  at  work 
with  noiseless  fingers!  What  was  I  in  its  presence  but 
a  grasshopper?  My  heart  said,  "I  may  not  call  thee 
property,  and  that  property  mine !  Thou  belongest  to 
the  air.  Thou  art  the  child  of  summer.  Thou  art  the 
mighty  temple  where  birds  praise  God.  Thou  be- 
longest  to  no  man's  hand,  but  to  all  men's  eyes  that  do 
love  beauty,  and  that  have  learned  through  beauty  to 
behold  God !  Stand,  then,  in  thine  own  beauty  and 
grandeur!  I  shall  be  a  lover  and  a  protector,  to 
keep  drought  from  thy  roots,  and  the  ax  from  thy 
trunk." 

For,  remorseless  men  there  are  crawling  yet  upon 
the  face  of  the  earth,  smitten  blind  and  inwardly  dead, 
whose  only  thought  of  a  tree  of  ages  is,  that  it  is  food 
for  the  ax  and  the  saw !  These  are  the  wretches  of 
whom  the  Scripture  speaks:  11 A  man  was  famous  ac- 
cording as  he  had  lifted  up  axes  upon  the  thick  trees." 

Thus  famous,  or  rather  infamous,  was  the  last  owner 
but  one,  before  me,  of  this  farm.  Upon  the  crown  of 
the  hill,  just  where  an  artist  would  have  planted  them, 
had  he  wished  to  have  them  exactly  in  the  right  place, 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


281 


grew  some  two  hundred  stalworth  and  ancient  maples, 
beeches,  ashes,  and  oaks,  a  narrow  belt-like  forest,  form- 
ing a  screen  from  the  northern  and  western  winds  in 
winter,  and  a  harp  of  endless  music  for  the  summer. 
The  wretched  owner  of  this  farm,  tempted  of  the  Devil, 
cut  down  the  whole  blessed  band  and  brotherhood  of 
trees,  that  he  might  fill  his  pocket  with  two  pitiful 
dollars  a  cord  for  the  wood !  Well,  his  pocket  was  the 
best  part  of  him.  The  iron  furnaces  have  devoured 
my  grove,  and  their  huge  stumps,  that  stood  like  grave- 
stones, have  been  cleared  away,  that  a  grove  may  be 
planted  in  the  same  spot,  for  the  next  hundred  years 
to  nourish  into  the  stature  and  glory  of  that  which  is 
gone. 

In  other  places,  I  find  the  memorials  of  many  noble 
trees  slain ;  here,  a  hemlock  that  carried  up  its  eternal 
green  a  hundred  feet  into  the  winter  air ;  there,  a  huge 
double-trunked  chestnut,  dear  old  grandfather  of  hun- 
dreds of  children  that  have  for  generations  clubbed  its 
boughs,  or  shook  its  nut-laden  top,  and  laughed  and 
shouted  as  bushels  of  chestnuts  rattled  down.  Now, 
the  tree  exists  only  in  the  form  of  loop-holed  posts  and 
weather- browned  rails.  I  do  hope  the  fellow  got  a  sliver 
in  his  finger  every  time  he  touched  the  hemlock  plank, 
or  let  down  the  bars  made  of  those  chestnut  rails ! 

What  then,  it  will  be  said,  must  no  one  touch  a 
tree?  must  there  be  no  fuel,  no  timber?  Go  to  the 
forest  for  both.  There  are  no  individual  trees  there, 
only  a  forest.  One  trunk  here,  and  one  there,  leaves 
the  forest  just  as  perfect  as  before,  and  gives  room  for 


282 


A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


young  aspiring  trees  to  come  up  in  the  world.  But  for 
a  man  to  cut  down  a  large,  well-formed,  healthy  tree 
from  the  roadside,  or  from  pastures  or  fields,  is  a  piece 
of  unpardonable  Vandalism.  It  is  worse  than  Puritan 
hammers  upon  painted  windows  and  idolatrous  statues. 
Money  can  buy  houses,  build  walls,  dig  and  drain  the 
soil,  cover  the  hills  with  grass,  and  the  grass  with  herds 
and  flocks.  But  no  money  can  buy  the  growth  of  trees. 
They  are  born  of  Time.  Years  are  the  only  coin  in 
which  they  can  be  paid  for.  Beside,  so  noble  a  thing 
is  a  well-grown  tree,  that  it  is  a  treasure  to  the  com- 
munity, just  as  is  a  work  of  art.  If  a  monarch  were 
to  blot  out  Euben's  Descent  from  the  Cross,  or  Angelo's 
Last  Judgment,  or  batter  to  pieces  the  marbles  of 
Greece,  the  whole  world  would  curse  him,  and  for  ever. 
Trees  are  the  only  art-treasures  which  belong  to  our 
villages.    They  should  be  precious  as  gold. 

But  let  not  the  glory  and  grace  of  single  trees  lead 
us  to  neglect  the  peculiar  excellences  of  the  forest. 
We  go  from  one  to  the  other,  needing  both;  as  in 
music  we  wander  from  melody  to  harmony,  and  from 
many-voiced  and  intertwined  harmonies  back  to  simple 
melody  again. 

To  most  people  a  grove  is  a  grove,  and  all  groves  are 
alike.  But  no  two  groves  are  alike.  There  is  as  marked 
a  difference  between  different  forests  as  between  differ- 
ent communities.  A  grove  of  pines  without  under- 
brush, carpeted  with  the  fine-fingered  russet  leaves  of 
the  pine,  and  odorous  of  resinous  gums,  has  scarcely  a 
trace  of  likeness  to  a  maple  woods,  either  in  the  insects, 


* 

A  WALK  AMONG  TREES. 


283 


the  birds,  the  shrubs,  the  light  and  shade,  or  the  sound 
of  its  leaves.  If  we  lived  in  olden  times  among  young 
mythologies,  we  should  say  that  pines  held  the  impris- 
oned spirits  of  naiads  and  water-nymphs,  and  that  their 
sounds  were  of  the  waters  for  whose  lucid  depths  they 
always  sighed.  At  any  rate,  the  first  pines  must  have 
grown  on  the  sea-shore,  and  learned  their  first  accents 
from  the  surf  and  the  waves;  and  all  their  posterity 
have  inherited  the  sound,  and  borne  it  inland  to  the 
mountains. 

I  like  best  a  forest  of  mingled  trees,  ash,  maple,  oak, 
beech,  hickory,  and  evergreens,  with  birches  growing 
along  the  edges  of  the  brook  that  carries  itself  through 
the  roots  and  stones,  toward  the  willows  that  grow  in 
yonder  meadow.  It  should  be  deep  and  somber  in 
some  directions,  running  off  into  shadowy  recesses  and 
coverts  beyond  all  footsteps.  In  such  a  wood  there  is 
endless  variety.  It  will  breathe  as  many  voices  to  your 
fancy  as  might  be  brought  from  any  organ  beneath  the 
pressure  of  some  Handel's  hands.  By  the  way,  Handel 
and  Beethoven  always  remind  me  of  forests.  So  do 
some  poets,  whose  numbers  are  various  as  the  infinity 
of  vegetation,  fine  as  the  choicest  cut  leaves,  strong  and 
rugged  in  places  as  the  unbarked  trunk  and  gnarled 
roots  at  the  ground's  surface.  Is  there  any  other  place, 
except  the  sea-side,  where  hours  are  so  short  and  mo- 
I  ments  so  swift  as  in  a  forest  ?  Where  else,  except  in 
the  rare  communion  of  those  friends  much  loved,  do 
we  awake  from  pleasure,  whose  calm  flow  is  without  a 
ripple,  into  surprise  that  whole  hours  are  gone  which 


284  A  WALK  AMONG  Va^S. 

we  thought  but  just  begun — blossomed  and  dropped, 
which  we  thought  but  just  budding!  It  is  no  place 
for  busy  men.  Let  not  those  resort  thither  who  have 
vocations  of  labor  and  care.  Nay,  rather,  let  those 
who,  too  busy,  need  to  be  more  away  from  strife  and 
overtasking  labor,  seek  the  forest.  Let  it  sing  to  them, 
and  in  its  twilights  let  oblivious  quiet  steal  over  their 
cares,  as  the  tides,  rising  silently  from  the  ocean,  creep 
upon  rude-visaged  rocks  and  cover  them  down  beneath 
their  placid  depths. 


XXV. 

BUILDING  A  HOUSE. 

A  house  is  the  shape  which  a  man's  thoughts  take 
when  he  imagines  how  he  should  like  to  live.  Its  in- 
ierior  is  the  measure  of  his  social  and  domestic  nature ; 
its  exterior,  of  his  esthetic  and  artistic  nature.  It  inter- 
prets, in  material  forms,  his  ideas  of  home,  of  friendship, 
and  of  comfort. 

Every  man  is,  in  a  small  way,  a  creator.  "We  seek 
to  embody  our  fancies  and  thoughts  in  some  material 
shape — to  give  them  an  incarnation.  Born  in  our 
spirit — invisible  and  intangible — we  are  always  seeking 
to  thrust  them  forth,  so  that  they  shall  return  to  us 
through  some  of  the  physical  senses.  Thus  speech 
brings  back  our  imaginings  to  the  ear ;  writing  brings 
them  back  to  the  eye ;  painting  brings  out  the  thoughts 
and  feelings,  in  forms  and  colors,  addressed,  through 
the  eye,  to  several  inward  tastes  ;  and  building  presents 
to  our  senses  our  thought  of  home-life. 

But  one's  dwelling  is  not  always  to  be  taken  as  the 
fair  index  of  his  mind,  any  more  than  the  richness  of 
one's  mind  is  judged  by  one's  fluency  in  speech  or  skill 
in  writing.  The  conceiving  power  may  be  greater  in 
us  than  the  creative  or  expressing  power.  But  there  are 
other  considerations  which  usually  have  more  to  do  with 
building,  especially  in  America,  than  a  man's  inward 
fancies.    In  fact,  in  the  greatest  number  of  instances,  a 


286 


BUILDING  A  HOUSE. 


man's  house  may  be  regarded  as  simply  the  measure  of 
his  purse.  It  is  a  compromise  between  his  heart  and 
his  pocket.  It  is  a  memorial  of  his  ingenuity  in  procur- 
ing the  utmost  possible  convenience  and  room  from  the 
least  possible  means  ;  for  our  young  men — ninety-nine 
in  a  hundred — are  happily  born ;  that  is,  born  poor,  but 
determined  to  be  rich.  This  gives  birth  to  industry, 
frugality,  ingenuity,  perseverance,  and  success,  inward 
and  outward ;  for,  while  making  his  fortune,  the  man 
is  making  himself.  He  is  extracting  manly  qualities 
out  of  those  very  labors  or  endurances  by  which  he 
achieves  material  wealth.  In  the  career  of  every  such 
young  man,  his  little  accumulations  have  to  perform 
three  functions — to  carry  on  his  business,  to  meet  the 
annual  expenses  of  his  little  but  growing  family,  and 
to  build  and  beautify  their  home.  Thus,  his  property, 
slender  at  best,  even  if  it  all  rose  in  one  channel,  must 
move  in  a  threefold  channel,  to  carry  three  mills.  The 
portion  set  apart  for  building,  therefore,  must  be  very  lit- 
tle. Indeed,  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  one  in  a  hundred 
knows  how  he  shall  pay  for  more  than  half  his  house, 
when  he  begins  to  build,  and  he  is  seldom  much  wiser 
when  he  ends.  He  draws  upon  hope,  and  when,  in  five 
or  ten  years,  the  house  is  paid  for,  it  would  puzzle  him  to 
say  how  he  had  done  it.  Now,  under  such  circumstances, 
it  would  be  absurd  to  look  for  what  are  called'  architec- 
tural effects.  There  must  be,  if  possible,  a  kitchen  and 
a  bed-room.  In  pioneer  life,  even  these  must  come  to- 
gether, and  one  room  serve  every  purpose.  But,  usual- 
ly, a  man  can  afford  a  kitchen,  a  dining-room,  (which 


BUILDING  A  HOUSE. 


287 


is  also  a  parlor,)  and  a  bed-room.  These  three  rooms 
are  the  seed  and  type  of  all  other  rooms  which  can  be 
built ;  for  all  apartments  must  serve  our  bodily  wants, 
our  social  domestic  wants,  and  our  social  public  wants. 
The  kitchen  and  dining-room,  and  all  appurtenances 
thereof,  are  for  the  animal  nature ;  our  bed-room  and 
sitting-room  and  library  are  for  our  home  social  wants ; 
and  our  parlors,  halls,  etc.,  for  our  more  public  social 
necessities.  While  one  is  yet  poor,  one  room  must 
serve  several  uses.  In  the  old-fashioned  country  houses 
the  kitchen  was  also  the  dining-room ;  and  never  will 
saloon,  how  admirable  soever,  be  so  pleasant  as  our  re- 
membered hours  in  the  great,  broad,  hospitable  kitchen. 
The  door  opened  into  the  well-room,  on  one  side, 
whence  came  the  pitcher,  all  dripping  and  bedewed; 
another  door  opened  into  the  cheese-room,  rich  with 
rows  of  yellow  cheeses ;  while  the  front  door,  wide 
open  in  summer,  attracted  clucking  hens  and  peeping 
chickens,  who  cocked  an  eye  at  you,  or  even  ventured 
across  the  threshold  after  a  stray  crumb. 

The  sitting-room  and  parlor,  too,  must  often  be  one 
and  the  same,  and  in  the  same  space  must  be  the  library, 
if  such  a  thing  is  known  in  the  dwelling.  Bed-rooms 
are  more  independent  and  aristocratic  than  anything 
else,  cultivating  very  exclusive  habits.  Yet,  even 
bed-rooms'  must  contrive  to  be  ingenious.  Curtained 
corners,  cloth  partitions,  trundle-beds  and  sofa-beds, 
that  disappear  by  day,  like  some  flowers,  unfold  only 
at  night. 

But,  in  proportion  as  one's   means  increase,  tho 


288 


BUILDING  A  HOUSE. 


rooms,  like  branches  in  a  plant,  grow  out  of  each  other, 
kitchen  and  dining-room  must  separate  and  live  by  them- 
selves. The  sitting-room  withdraws  from  the  parlor, 
taking  all  the  ease  and  comfort  with  it,  and  leaving  all 
the  stateliness  and  frigid  dignity.  All  the  books  walk 
off  into  a  little  black-walnut  room  by  themselves,  where 
they  stand  in  patient  splendor  and  silent  wisdom  be- 
hind their  glass  doors.  The  flowers  abandon  the  win- 
dows, and  inhabit  a  formal  conservatory.  Bed-rooms 
multiply,  each  one  standing  in  single  blessedness.  The 
house  is  full  grown.  Alas!  too  often  all  its  comfort 
goes,  just  when  it  should  stand  full  blossomed !  How 
many  persons,  from  out  of  their  two-story  frame  dwell- 
ings, have  sighed  across  the  way  for  the  log  cabin ! 
How  many  persons  have  moved  from  a  home  into  a 
house;  from  low  ceilings,  narrow  halls,  rooms  of 
multifarious  uses,  into  splendid  apartments,  whose 
chief  effect  was  to  make  them  homesick.  But  this  is 
because  pride  or  vanity  was  the  new  architect.  For  a 
large  house  is  a  grand  and  almost  indispensable  ele- 
ment to  our  fullest  idea  of  comfort.  But  it  must  be 
social  largeness.  The  broad  halls  must  seem  to  those 
that  enter  like  open  arms  holding  out  a  welcome,  not 
like  the  aisles  of  a  church,  lifted  up  out  of  reach  of  hu- 
man sympathy.  The  staircase  should  be  so  broad  and 
gentle  in  inclination,  that  its  very  looks  invite  you  to 
try  it.  But,  then,  a  large#house  ought  to  have  great 
diversity ;  some  rooms  should  have  a  ceiling  higher 
than  others ;  doors  should  come  upon  you  in  unexpect- 
ed places;  little  cosy  rooms  should  surprise  you  in 


BUILDING  A  HOUSE. 


289 


every  direction.  Where  you  expected  a  cupboard,  there 
should  be  a  little  confidential  entry-way.  Where  the 
door  seems  to  open  into  the  yard,  you  should  discover 
a  sweet  little  nest  that  happened  into  the  plan  as  bright 
thoughts  now  and  then  shine  in  the  soul.  All  sorts  of 
closets  and  queer  cupboards  should  by  degrees  be  found 
out. 

Now,  such  a  house  never  sprang  full-grown  from  an 
architect's  brain,  as  did  the  fabled  deity  from  Jupiter's 
head.  It  must  grow.  Each  room  must  have  been 
needed  for  a  long  time,  and  come  into  being  with  a  de- 
cided character  impressed  upon  them.  They  will  have 
been  aimed  at  some  real  want,  and,  meeting  it,  will  take 
their  subtile  air  and  character  from  it.  Thus,  one  by 
one,  the  rooms  will  be  born  into  the  house  as  children 
are  into  the  family.  And,  as  our  affections  have  un- 
doubtedly a  certain  relation  to  form,  color,  and  space, 
so  our  rooms  will  in  their  forms,  dimensions,  and  hues, 
indicate  the  faculties  which  most  wrought  in  their  pro- 
duction. 

We  all  know  what  is  meant,  in  painting,  in  music, 
and  in  writing,  by  conventionalism.  Men  write  or  fash- 
ion, not  to  give  ease  to  an  impulse  in  them  that  strug- 
gles for  a  birth,  but  because  they  have  an  outside 
knowledge  that  such  and  such  things  would  be  proper 
and  customary.  So  do  men  build  conventional  houses. 
They  put  all  the  customary  rooms  in  the  customary 
manner.  They  express  themselves  in  this  room  as 
kitchens  are  usually  expressed ;  they  fashion  parlors  as 
they  remember  that  parlors  have  been  made ;  they  go 
13 


290 


BUILDING  A  HOUSE. 


to  their  books,  their  plans,  and  portfolios  of  what  has 
been  done,  and,  selecting  here  a  thing  and  there  a 
thing,  they  put  a  house  together  as  girls  do  patchwork 
bed-spreads,  a  piece  out  of  every  dress  in  the  family  for 
the  last  year  or  two.  These  are  conventional  houses. 
Such  are  almost  all  city  houses — the  original  type  of 
which  was  a  ladder ;  from  each  round,  rooms  issue,  in 
ascending  order,  and  the  perpendicular  stairs  still  retain 
the  peculiar  properties  of  the  type.  Such,  too,  are 
almost  all  ambitious  country  houses,  built  in  conspicu- 
ous places,  in  the  most  intrusive  and  come-and-look- 
at-me  manner;  painted  as  brilliantly  as  flash  peddlers 
wagons,  or  parrots'  wings. 

Until  men  are  educated,  and  good  taste  is  far  more 
common  than  it  is,  this  method  of  building  houses, 
by  the  architect's  plans,  and  not  by  the  owner's  dispo- 
sition, must  prevail ;  and  it  is  not  the  worst  of  earth's 
imperfections.  But  a  genuine  house,  an  original  house, 
a  house  that  expresses  the  builder  s  inward  idea  of 
life  in  its  social  and  domestic  aspect,  can  not  be 
planned  for  him ;  nor  can  he,  all  at  once,  sit  down  and 
plan  it.  It  must  be  a  result  of  his  own  growth.  It 
must  first  be  wanted — each  room  and  each  nook.  But, 
as  we  come  to  ourselves  little  by  little  and  gradually, 
so  a  house  should  either  be  built  by  successive  addi- 
tions, or  it  should  be  built  when  we  are  old  enough  to 
put  together  the  accumulated  ideas  of  our  life.  Alas! 
when  we  are  old  enough  for  that,  we  are  ready  to  die; 
or  Time  hath  dealt  so  rudely  with  our  hearts,  that,  like 
trees  at  whose  boughs  tempests  have  wrought,  we  arh 


BUILDING  A  HOUSE 


291 


not  anxious  to  give  expression  to  ourselves.  The  best 
way  to  build,  therefore,  is  to  build,  as  trees  grow,  season 
by  season ;  all  after-branches  should  grow  with  a  sym- 
metrical sympathy  with  older  ones.  In  this  way,  too,  one 
may  secure  that  mazy  diversity,  that  most  unlooked-for 
intricacy  in  a  dwelling,  and  that  utter  variation  of  lines 
in  the  exterior,  which  pleases  the  eye,  or  ought  to 
please  it,  if  it  be  trained  in  the  absolute  school  of 
Nature,  and  which  few  could  ever  invent  at  once,  and 
on  purpose ! 

We  abhor  Grecian  architecture  for  private  dwellings, 
and  especially  for  country  homes.  It  is  cheerless,  pre- 
tentious, frigid.  Those  cold  long-legged  columns,  hold- 
ing up  a  useless  pediment  that  shelters  nothing  and 
shades  nothing,  reminds  one  of  certain  useless  men  in 
society,  for  ever  occupied  with  maintaining  their  dignity, 
which  means  their  perpendicularity.  In  spite  of  Mr. 
Buskin,  we  do  like  Grecian  architecture  in  well-placed 
public  buildings.  But  it  gives  us  a  shiver  to  see  dwell- 
ings so  stiff  and  stately. 

We  have,  too,  a  special  doctrine  of  windows.  They  are 
designed  to  let  the  light  in,  and  equally  to  let  the  sight 
out ;  and  this  last  function  is,  in  the  country,  of  prime 
importance.  For,  a  window  is  but  another  name  for  a 
stately  picture.  There  are  no  such  landscapes  on  can- 
vas as  those  which  you  see  through  glass.  There  are 
no  painted  windows  like  those  which  trees  and  lawns 
paint  standing  in  upon  them,  with  all  the  glory  of  God 
resting  on  them !  Our  common,  small,  frequent  win- 
dows in  country  dwellings  are  contemptible.    We  love 


292 


BUILDING  A  HOUSE. 


rather  tlie  generous  old  English  windows,  large  as  the 
whole  side  of  a  room,  many-angled,  or  circular ;  but, 
of  whatever  shape,  they  should  be  recessed — glorious 
nooks  of  light,  the  very  antitheses  of  those  shady 
coverts  which  we  search  out  in  forests,  in  hot  summer 
days.  These  little  chambers  of  light,  -  into  which  a 
group  may  gather,  and  be  both  in  doors  and  out  of 
doors  at  the  same  time ;  where,  in  storms  or  in  winter, 
we  may  have  full  access  to  the  elements  without  chill, 
wet,  or  exposure, — these  are  the  glory  of  a  dwelling. 
The  great  treasures  of  a  dwelling  are,  the  child's  cradle, 
the  grandmother's  chair,  the  hearth  and  old-fashioned 
fire-place,  the  table,  and  the  window. 

Bed-rooms  should  face  the  east,  and  let  in  the  full 
flush  of  morning  light.  There  is  a  positive  pleasure  in  a 
golden  bath  of  early  morning  light.  Your  room  is  filled 
and  glorified.  You  awake  in  the  very  spirit  of  light.  It 
creeps  upon  you,  and  suffuses  your  soul,  pierces  your 
sensibility,  irradiates  the  thoughts,  and  warms  and 
cheers  the  whole  dav.  It  is  sweet  to  awake  and  find 
.  your  thoughts  moving  to  the  gentle  measures  of  soft 
music ;  but  we.  think  it  full  as  sweet  to  float  into  morn- 
ing consciousness  upon  a  flood  of  golden  light,  silent 
though  it  be !  What  can  be  more  delicious  than  a 
summer  morning,  dawning  through  your  open  windows, 
to  the  sound  of  innumerable  birds,  while  the  shadows 
of  branches  and  leaves  sway  to  and  fro  along  the  wall, 
or  spread  new  patterns  on  the  floor,  wavering  with 
perpetual  change  I 


XXVI. 


CHRISTIAN  LIBERTY  IN  THE  USE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 

In  an  age  when  men  more  and  more  feel  the  duty 
of  employing  their  strength  and  their  wealth  for  the 
education  of  their  fellows,  it  becomes  a  question  of 
supreme  moment,  to  what  extent  a  Christian  man  may 
surround  himself  with  embellishments  and  luxuries  of 
beauty. 

There  be  many  who  would  walk  through  a  noble 
gallery  of  paintings  with  an  accusing  conscience,  re- 
peating to  themselves,  with  poignant  sincerity,  the  hoi- 
low  words  of  the  old  traitor,  when  the  alabaster  box  of 
precious  ointment  was  poured  upon  His  head,  "To 

what  purpose  is  this  waste?  Why  was  it  not 

sold  for  three  hundred  pence,  and  given  to  the  poor  ?" 

Nor  is  the  self-accusation  lessened  when  one  perceives 
that  elegance  and  luxury  are  most  often  employed  as  a 
shining  barrier,  built  up  between  the  cultured  and  the 
vulgar — the  barrier  around  a  class  more  impenetrable 
than  the  conventional  distinctions  of  artificial  nobility. 
For  no  customs  of  law  or  usage  have  such  force  as 
those  which  spring  from  the  soul's  own  living  con 
sciousness  of  difference  and  superiority. 

Many  earnest  men,  therefore,  have  associated  embel- 
lishments with  selfishness,  and  forswear  them  as  a  part 
of  their  fealty  to  Benevolence. 


294 


CHRISTIAN  LIBERTY  IN  THE 


It  seems  to  me  that  God  has  ordained  a  usefulness  of 
the  beautiful,  as  much  as  of  knowledge,  of  skill,  of 
labor,  and  of  benevolence.  It  was  meant  to  be  not 
alone  a  cause  of  enjoyment,  but  a  positive  means  of 
education.  Is  wealth  allowable,  if  one  will  employ  it 
benevolently  ?  Is  philosophy  allowable,  if  one  will 
apply  it  to  the  uses  of  men  ?  Is  scholarship  virtuous, 
if  it  be  a  treasure  held  in  trust  for  all  kinds  of  igno- 
rance ?  Is  skill  praiseworthy,  if  employed  to  promote 
the  human  weal  ?  And  why  is  not  the  possession  of 
architectural  beauty,  of  art- treasures,  of  landscape  beauty, 
the  beauty  of  grounds  and  gardens,  of  homes  and  fur- 
niture, if  they  are  held  conscientiously  amenable  to  the 
law  of  usefulness? 

Society  grows,  as  trees  do,  by  rings.  There  are  innu- 
merable circles  formed,  with  mutual  attractions.  The 
lowest  section  feels  and  emulates  that  which  is  next 
above ;  that  circle  is  aspiring  to  the  level  next  above  it 
This  one,  in  its  turn,  is  attracted  by  one  yet  higher ; 
and  that  by  another. 

There  are  some  influences,  to  be  sure,  that  are  gen- 
eral,  and  that  strike  right  through  from  top  to  bottom 
of  life.  And  there  are  many  special  influences  which, 
like  comets,  come  unexpectedly  blazing  along  their 
orbits,  with  streaming  influences,  long  trailed.  But 
there  are  certain  organic  conditions  of  life,  founded 
upon  gradations  of  mind-power,  or  of  development. 

The  ditcher  aspires  to  the  position  of  a  husbandman ; 
the  apprentice  emulates  the  prosperous  master- mechanic; 
the  mechanic  looks  up  to  those  whose  wealth  is  allied 


USE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.  295 

to  education;  the  plainly-bred  citizen  aspires  to  the 
mental  activity  of  professional  men  and  scholars ;  and 
these,  in  turn,  acknowledge  gradations  among  them- 
selves to  the  very  top  of  genius ;  and  all  men  are 
reaching  after  some  ideal,  or  some  example  that  hangs 
above  them.  So  that,  when  a  man  has  no  longer  any 
conception  of  excellence  above  his  own,  his  voyage  is 
done,  he  is  dead — dead  in  trespasses  and  sins  of  blear- 
eyed  vanity ! 

We  can  not  always  tell  the  exact  gradations,  nor  mark 
oif  the  sections  like  inches  on  a  rule.  Society  is  so  vast 
a  thing,  that  its  growths  are  like  the  luxurious  up- 
sprouting  s  of  a  tropica]  forest,  choked  with  abundance, 
forcing  ip  its  vines  and  plants  and  trees,  in  sinuous 
interfacings  that  quite  bewilder  the  eye  that  would 
trace  the  outward  form,  or  the  research  that  would  fol- 
low the  flow  of  sap  from  rootlet  to  topmost  leaf.  Yet, 
we  know  that  it  is  in  society  as  it  is  in  vegetation.  It 
is  not  the  sun  upon  the  root  that  begins  growth  in  a  m 
tree,  but  the  sun  upon  its  top.  The  outermost  wood 
awakes  and  draws  upon  that  below  it,  and  sends  pro- 
gressing activity  down  to  its  root.  Then  begins  a  double 
circulation.  The  root  sends  up  its  crude  sap,  the  leaf 
prepares  it  with  all  vegetative  treasures,  and  back  it 
goes  on  a  mission  of  distribution  to  every  part,  to  the 
outmost  root.  And  thus,  with  striking  analogy,  is  it  in 
society.  The  great  mass  are  producing  gross  material 
that  rises  up  to  refinement  and  power,  that,  in  turn, 
send  back  the  influence  of  refinement  and  power  upon 
all  the  successive  degrees,  to  the  bottom ! 


« 


296 


CHRISTIAN  LIBERTY  IN  THE 


It  is  in  this  point  of  view  that  the  very  highest  forms 
of  literary  and  scientific  institutions  are  to  be  judged 
and  justified. 

An  astronomical  observatory  may  seem  to  have  no 
relation  to  the  welfare  of  a  community.  What  have 
eclipses  and  planetary  transits  to  do  with  human  life  ? 
When  the  invisible  paths  of  all  stars  are  traced  by 
mathematical  faith,  what  have  parallaxes  and  multitu- 
dinous calculations  to  do  with  men's  ordinary  business? 
But  experience  will,  in  a  generation,  show,  that  those 
who  first  feel  the  fruits  and  elevation  of  such  pursuits 
will  be  few ;  but  they  will  become  broader,  deeper,  and 
better.  Through  them,  but  diluted  and  not  recognized, 
the  next  class  below  will  be  influenced — not  by  astron- 
omy, but  by  the  moral  power  of  men  who  have  been 
elevated  by  astronomy.  Every  part  of  society  is  af- 
fected when  men  are  built  up.  They  impart  their  own 
growth  to  whatever  they  touch.  Enlarge  men,  and  you 
•    enlarge  everything. 

There  be  some*  who  rail  at  universities  as  too  remote 
from  practical  life  and  living  wants,  and  who  propose 
colleges  to  teach  men  their  very  trades  and  professions. 
But  these  subordinate  colleges  will  depend  upon  the 
superior  influences  of  institutions  above  them,  that  are 
the  standards — the  Chronometers  of  Learning. 

There  never  can  be  too  many  libraries,  too  many 
.  cabinets,  too  many  galleries  of  art,  too  many  literary 
men,  too  much  culture.  The  power  of  mind  at  the  top 
of  society  will  determine  the  ease  and  rapidity  of  the 
ascent  of  the  bottom — just  as  the  power  of  the  engine 


USE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


297 


at  the  top  of  the  inclined  plane  will  determine  the 
length  of  th.3  train  that  can  be  drawn  up,  and  the  rapid- 
ity of  its  ascent. 

This  marks  the  distinction  between  natural  and  arti- 
ficial nobility.  All  societies  have  nobles.  We  have  a 
nobility  as  really  as  do  monarchies.  But  in  England  it 
is  an  order  separated  from  those  below  ;  and  there  is  no 
free  circulation.  No  one  can  rise  into  it  by  force  of 
moral  excellence  and  culture,  though  he  may  be  really 
equal  to  its  members.  Artificial  aristocracy  stands  look- 
ing down  upon  the  mass  of  men,  as  did  Father  Abraham, 
saying :  u  Between  us  and  you  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed, 
so  that  they  which  would  pass  hence  to  you  can  not ;  neither 
can  they  pass  to  us  that  would  come  from  thence" 

Natural  aristocracy  is  the  eminence  of  men  over  their 
fellows,  in  real  mind  and  soul.  They  are  above  men 
because  they  are  wiser  and  better ;  and  any  one  may 
join  them  whenever  he  is  as  wise  and  as  good.  They 
are  above  society,  not  to  spread  their  roots  in  the  great 
democracy  and  sustain  the  glory  of  the  field  by  filching 
out  its  strength,  but  rather,  as  clouds  are  above  the 
earth,  to  open  their  bosoms,  and  cast  down  fertilizing 
rains,  that  all  the  earth,  and  every  living  thing,  may 
rejoice. 

It  is  upon  this  great  principle  that  men  may  become 
the  benefactors  of  their  race  by  the  indulgence  of  beauty, 
and  embellishments,  if  they  be  employed  generously 
and  public-spiritedly.  Every  mansion  that  enlarges  men's 
conceptions  of  convenience,  of  comfort,  of  substantial* 
ness  and  permanence,  or  of  beauty,  is  an  institution. 
18* 


298 


CHRISTIAN  LIBERTY  IN  THE 


It  may  have  been  selfishness  that  built  it ;  extrava- 
gance may  have  been  the  ruling  spirit.  The  owner 
may  have  been  some  imbecile  for  whose  vanity  some 
noble  architect  wrought ; .  the  completed  work  may 
leave  the  luckless  owner  bankrupt ;  and  all  men  may 
deride  the  folly  of  costly  buildings  and  expensive 
grounds.  Every  reproach  may  fall  upon  his  empty 
head  most  righteously  ;  yet  his  folly  may  have  done 
more  for  the  village  than  the  wisdom  of  all  the  rest ! 

The  work  is  done.  What  that  stately  mansion  is,  it 
is  in  itself.  It  stands  through  generations  a  form  of 
beauty  lifted  up.  When  its  owner's  history  is  a  legend, 
its  lines  will  stand  unbroken,  its  shadows  will  be  as  fresh 
as  on  the  day  when  they  first  fell  trembling  from  the 
glances  of  the  sun.  The  old  trees  will  outlive  genera- 
tions of  men.  They  will  proclaim  the  glory  of  God  to 
the  eye  by  day,  and  awake  at  midnight,  in  the  summer 
winds,  to  sing  their  solemn  song  of  praise  ! 

But  how  much  more  will  all  this  be,  if  such  a  structure 
is  in  due  proportion  to  its  builder's  means ;  if  it  be  no 
creature  of  his  vanity,  but  born  legitimately  of  his  sense 
of  grandeur  and  beauty  ;  if  it  be  the  magazine,  too,  of 
his  beneficence,  so  that  out  of  it  shall  issue  all  gentle- 
ness, ail  due  humility,  all  neighborly  love,  all  grace 
and  purity  of  life,  and,  effluent  as  the  golden  airs  of 
summer  days,  charities  and  public  bounties,  enriching 
the  wide  circle  about,  and  making  angels  stoop  to  kiss 
with  reverent  love  the  noble  brow  that  lived  in  such 
joy  of  beauty  as  this  ! 

It  is  wealth  selfishly  kept  or  spent  that  is  mean. 


USE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


299 


It  is  architecture  that  shuts  a  man's  heart  in  from  his 
fellows  that  is  mean  ;  that  stands  with  effrontery,  saying 
to  all  who  pass,  a  Come  and  worship  me" 

It  is  selfishness,  in  short,  under  what  form  of  knowl- 
edge, refinement,  power,  wealth,  or  beauty,  that  curses 
man,  and  is  itself  accursed. 

The  question  is  not  what  proportion  of  his  wealth  a 
Christian  man  may  divert  from  benevolent  channels  for 
personal  enjoyment  through  the  element  of  the  beauti- 
ful. For,  if  rightly  viewed,  and  rightly  used,  his  very 
elegances  and  luxuries  will  be  a  contribution  to  the 
public  good.  One  may  well  say,  "  How  can  I  indulge 
in  such  embellishments  in  my  dwelling,  when  so  many 
thousands  are  perishing  for  lack  of  knowledge  about 
me."  This  is  conclusive  against  a  selfish  use  of  the 
beautiful.  But  rightly  employed,  it  becomes  itself  a 
contribution  to  the  education  of  society.  It  acts  upon 
the  lower  classes  by  acting  first  upon  the  higher.  It  is 
an  education  of  the  educators.  And  the  question  be- 
comes only  this :  How  much  of  my  wealth  given  to  the 
public  good  shall  be  employed  directly  for  the  elevation 
of  the  ignorant,  and  how  much  indirectly?  How  much 
shall  I  bring  to  bear  directly  upon  the  masses,  and  how 
much  indirectly  through  institutions  and  remote  instru- 
mentalities ? 

I  can  not  but  think  that  Christian  men  have  not  only 
a  right  of  enjoyment  in  the  beautiful,  but  a  duty,  in 
some  measure,  pf  producing  it,  or  propagating  it,  or  dif- 
fusing it  abroad  through  the  community. 

Some  may  build  their  work  in  words,  and  live  in 


\ 


300 


CHRISTIAN  LIBERTY  IN  THE 


literature.  Some  may  shape  their  sense  into  sound,  and 
live  in  the  world's  song.  Some  may  insphere  them- 
selves in  art,  and  transmit  the  statue,  the  canvas,  or  the 
stately  pile. 

Some  may  contribute  to  this  realm  of  beauty  in  that 
only  department  in  which  America  has  an  original 
architecture  with  native  lines  of  beauty,  expressed  in 
those  storm-driven  Temples  of  the  Deep. 

And  if  there  are  aspiring  natures  that  wistfully  ask, 
with  empty  hands,  What  may  we  with  our  poverty  do 
to  embellish  the  earth,  to  them  I  say,  When  all  the 
works  of  man  are  ended,  he  has  not  approached  the 
inexpressible  beauty  of  God's  architecture. 

Those  stately  elms,  that  teach  us  every  winter  how 
meekly  to  lay  our  glories  by;  and  receive  the  reverses 
of  inevitable  misfortune,  and  that  soon  will  teach  us  to 
look  forth  out  of  all  misfortunes,  and  clothe  ourselves 
afresh  after  every  winter,  what  have  ye  that  may  com- 
pare with  them?  The  cathedrals  of  the  world  are  not 
traced  as  these,  nor  so  adorned,  nor  so  full  of  commu- 
nion, nor  have  they  pliant  boughs  on  which  with  hum- 
ble might  they  swing  the  peaceful  singing-bird,  and 
from  whose  swaying,  night  or  day,  there  is  music  in 
the  air  for  them  that  know  the  sound !  Of  all  man's 
works  of  art,  a  cathedral  is  greatest.  A  tree  is  greater 
than  that!  Of  all  man's  instruments  of  sound,  an 
organ  uttering  its  mazy  harmonies  through  the  somber 
arches  of  the  reverend  pile,  is  the  grandest;  but  the 
sound  of  summer  in  the  forest,  is  grander  than  that ! 

And,  if  we  wander  out  from  the  arid  city  till  we 


USE  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 


801 


come  to  these  crowned  monarchs  of  the  fields,  we  need 
not  be  ashamed  to  stand  with  lifted  hands  and  bless  our 
God  for  a  .gift  of  beauty  greater  than  any  man  may 
build  I 

It  is,  then,  here,  that  every  one  may  yield  to  life 
some  embellishment.  To  the  home  of  your  youth  you 
may  return  with  gathered  wealth  to  replant  it  with 
flowers.  Your  native  village  you  may  imbosom  in 
well-selected  forests.  The  traveler  may,  in  another 
generation,  journey  along  our  roads,  overarched  with 
elms  or  shaded  with  stately  oaks. 

Your  villages  may  grow  lovely  in  a  thousand  features 
now  unknown.  Every  yard  and  garden  may  be  a 
paradise. 

The  church,  no  longer  gaunt,  shattered,  and  decay- 
ing, may,  by  the  loving  hands  of  those  whose  boyhood 
was  nurtured  there,  rise  in  renewed  beauty.  Or,  if  its 
hereditary  ailments  or  proportions  defy  remedy,  from 
your  zeal  may  spring  another  structure,  harmonious  in 
every  proportion,  a  joy  to  the  eye,  signaling  the  distant 
traveler  with  its  spire,  its  solemn  bell,  through  all  the 
hours  of  day*and  night,  ringing  out  the  sound  of  our 
footsteps  toward  eternity ! 

The  old  graveyard,  that  shame  of  many  villages, 
where  death  and  weeds  reign  triumphant  over  the  for- 
gotten graves  of  parents  and  dear  hearts,  hath  thy 
hand  no  bounty  wherewith  to  yield  to  it  a  reverend 
beauty  ? 

« 

Shall  the  old  school-house  stand  longer  mounted  in 
the  eye  of  the  summer  sun,  the  very  target  of  the 


302  CHRISTIAN  LIBERTY,  ETC. 

winter  wind,  treeless,  bare,  filthy  ?  By  thy  bounteous 
hand  let  it  be  cleansed  by  fire,  and  from  its  ashes  bid 
arise  a  phenix  that  shall  be  just  what  for  the  most 
part  school -houses  are  not. 

But  in  all  your  labors  for  the  Beautiful,  remember 
that  its  mission  is  not  of  corruption,  nor  of  pride,  nor 
of  selfishness,  but  of  benevolence/  And  as  God  hath 
created  beauty,  not  for  a  few,  but  hath  furnished  it  for 
the  whole  earth,  multiplying  it  until,  like  drops  of 
water  and  particles  of  air,  it  abounds  for  every  living 
thing,  and  in  measure  far  transcending  human  want, 
until  the  world  is  a  running-over  cup,  so  let  thine  heart 
understand  both  the  glory  of  God's  beauty  and  the 
generosity  of  its  distribution.  So  living,  life  shall  be  a 
glory,  and  death  a  passing  from  glory  to  glory  1 


XXVIL 

NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS. 

Lenox,  August  27,  1354, 

It  was  not  meant  that  the  enjoyments  of  life  should 
be  few  and  intense,  but  many  and  gentle;  and  great 
happiness  is  the  sum  of  a  multitude  of  drops.  Those 
days  which  are  the  channels  of  mighty  joys  are,  per- 
haps, the  most  memorable.  But  they  exhaust.  They 
unfit  us  for  common  duties.  We  regard  them  as  we  do 
mountain-tops.  We  go  up  occasionally,  not  to  dwell 
there,  but  to  see  at  a  glance  the  whole  of  that  which, 
upon  the  plains,  we  see  only  in  succession  and  in  detail. 
But  the  staple  of  pleasure  must  be  found  in  small  mea- 
sures, and  in  common  things.  They  who  are  seeking 
enjoyment  in  remote  ways,  abandoning  familiar  things 
and  common  experience  for  wild  and  outstretched 
flights,  will  find  more  and  more,  as  life  advances,  that 
they  have  taken  the  road  to  yearnings,  but  not  to  en- 
joyment.  The  secret  of  happiness  lies  in  the  health  of 
the  whole  mind,  and  in  giving  to  each  faculty  due 
occupation,  and  in  the  natural  order  of  their  superiori- 
ties, the  Divine  first,  the  human  second,  the  material 
last.  And  every  one  can  find,  but  in  different  degrees, 
the  food  for  all  their  faculties  in  that  sphere  into  which 
God  has  cast  their  lot.  Instead  of  seeking  happiness 
by  going  out  of  our  place,  our  skill  should  be  to  find 
it  where  we  are.    Our  pleasures,  like  honey,  should 


804  NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS. 

be  extracted  not  from  a  few  stately  flowers,  named  and 
classic,  but  from  the  whole  multitude,  great  and  small, 
which  God  has  sown  with  profuse  hand  to  smile  in 
every  nook,  and  to  make  the  darkest  corners  warm 
with  their  glowing  presence.  Every  thing  which  is 
made  has  an  errand  to  us,  if  we  will  hear.  No  differ- 
ence among  men  is  more  noticeable  than  the  facility  of 
happiness.  No  gift  of  God  should  be  more  gratefully 
recognized  than  a  nature  easily  tending  toward  enjoy- 
ment. So  that  of  its  own  accord,  it  avoids  sources  of 
annoyance,  and  discerns  in  every  thing  some  ray  of 
brightness. 

On  such  a  glorious  morning  of  a  perfect  day  as  this, 
when  all  the  smoky  haze  has  gone  from  the  horizon, 
when  the  sun  comes  up  fresh  and  clear,  and  will  go 
down  unreddened  by  vapor,  the  mountains  come  back 
from  their  hiding,  and  I  wander  forth,  wondering  how 
there  should  be  sorrow  in  the  world.  It  seems  as  if  it 
were  a  thing  that  I  had  read  about  in  fictions,  but  had 
half-forgotten,  like  a  fading  dream.  Every  sense  is 
calmly  alive,  and  every  faculty  that  lies  back  of  sense 
is  quietly  exultant.  My  soul  is  like  a  hive,  and  it 
swarms  with  thoughts  and  feelings  going  nimbly  out, 
and  returning  with  golden  thighs  to  the  growing  comb. 
Each  hour  is  a  perfect  hour,  clear,  full,  and  unsated. 
It  is  the  joy  of  being  alive.  It  is  the  experience  of 
that  living  joy  which  God  meant  to  exhale  from  each 
faculty,  just  as  odors  do  from  flowers.  Such  days  are 
let  down  from  heaven.  On  such  days  the  gate  that 
looks  toward  the  earth  has  surely  been  set  wide  open, 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS. 


305 


and  hours  are  but  the  spaces  which  lie  between  the 
angels  that  God  sends  to  bear  to  us  immortal  joys. 

From  the  grand  tranquillity  that  reigns  on  every  side 
I  turn  my  thoughts,  with  dreamy  surprise,  to  those 
whirlpools  of  excitement  where  men  strive  for  honor, 
and  know  not  what  is  honorable ;  for  wealiL,  and  do 
not  know  true  riches ;  for  pleasure,  and  are  ignorant 
of  the  first  elements  of  pleasure.  There  comes  to  me 
a  sad  sense  of  the  turmoil  of  men  fiercely  bent  upon 
happiness,  who  will  never  know  it.  They  are  starving 
amidst  unexampled  abundance.  In  their  Father's  house 
is  bread  enough  and  to  spare,  and  a  divine  wine  that 
inspires  ardor,  without  intoxication,  within  the  soul. 
Why  should  they  be  furrowed  with  care,  and  my  un- 
wrinkled  heart  be  purpled  over  with  blossoming  joy  ? 
Are  we  not  made  alike?  Have  they  not  every  one 
of  the  faculties  that  I  have  ?  Every  sense  that  rings 
to  the  strokes  of  joy  they  have  even  as  I  have. 
And  they  have,  too,  the  very  things  that  make  me 
supremely  joyful,  a  hope  of  immortality,  a  present  and 
paternal  God,  the  sun,  the  face  of  the  world,  the  clouds, 
the  trees  and  the  birds  which  keep  house  in  them,  the  air, 
the  innumerable  grass !  It  is  not  any  thing  that  I  own, 
it  is  no  stroke  of  grand  fortune,  no  special  success,  that 
rejoices  me.  It  is  nothing  but  the  influence  of  those 
things  in  which  every  man  has  common  possession — 
days,  nights,  forests,  mountains,  atmosphere,  universal 
and  unmonopolized  nature!  But  having  eyes  they 
will  not  see,  and  ears  they  will  not  hear,  and  a  heart 
they  will  not  understand.    As  the  old  prophet  touched 


306  NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS. 

his  servant's  eyes,  and  he  beheld  the  mountains  filled 
with  the  angels  and  chariots  of  God,  and  feared  no 
more;  so,  methinks,  if  I  could  but  bring  the  eager 
thousands  forth  who  pant  and  strive  for  joy,  only  for 
joy,  and  unseal  their  eyes,  they  should  behold  and 
know  assuredly  that  happiness  was  not  in  all  the  places 
where  they  delve  and  vex  themselves.  In  the  presence 
of  these  heavenly  hours,  riches,  touched  with  the  finger 
of  God,  would  say,  "Joy  is  not  in  me."  Fame  would 
say,  <£  It  is  not  in  me."  Passion,  hoarse  from  toils  of 
grossness,  would  say,  "  It  is  not  in  me."  And  amidst 
their  confessions  a  voice  should  come  down  through  the 
clear  air  from  heaven  and  the  very  bosom  of  Christ, 
saying,  "Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  In  that  rest, 
which  Christ  gives  every  created  thing,  lies  an  at- 
mosphere of  enchanted  beauty ! 

Yea,  Lord!  that  promise  is  a  highway  without  a 
chasm.  Ten  thousand  feet  have  trod  it,  and  found  it 
true.  My  own  soul  knoweth  it  right  well.  And  this 
out-spread  crystal  vault  is  full  of  the  light  of  thy 
countenance.  This  earth,  which  the  sun  unrolls  and 
reads  daily,  is  thy  written  parchment!  It  were  a  dead 
and  mute  thing  but  for  the  presence  of  the  living  God. 
As  upon  mountain-tops,  the  noise  of  the  valley  dies 
away  and  is  not  heard,  and  men's  dwellings  are  no 
bigger  than  leaves,  and  all  the  mightiest  uproars  are 
whispers,  and  the  silent  spectator  looks  down  upon  life 
unharassed  by  its  currents,  so,  in  such  hours  as  this, 
the  soul  stands  with  God,  and  moves  somewhat  in  tho 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS.  307 

eternal  course  of  the  Divine  soul;  while  the  eddies, 
the  dark  dangers  of  the  deep  pools  in  life's  rocky 
stream,  the  hoarse,  rushing,  and  impetuous  outburst  of 
the  furious  currents  of  human  passions  are  so  far  below, 
that  we  either  see  them  not  or  see  them  as  a  silent 
vapor!  Thus,  Lord,  wilt  thou  hide  whom  thou 
choosest  in  thy  pavilion,  and  the  storm  shall  thunder 
unheard  beneath  them,  the  darkness  shall  be  light 
around  about  them,  and  perfect  peace  shall  abide  upon 
their  hearts  for  ever ! 

Is  it  Nature  that  has  the  power  of  conferring  such 
religious  joy,  or  is  it  Eeligion  that  inspires  Nature  to 
such  celestial  functions?  To  a  Christian  heart  it  is 
both.  The  soul  seeks  and  sees  God  through  nature, 
and  nature  changes  its  voice,  speaking  no  longer  of 
mere  material  grandeur  and  beauty,  but  declares  through 
all  its  parts  the  glory  of  God.  Then  when  Christ  is 
most  with  us,  do  we  find  nature  the  most  loving,  the 
most  inspired ;  and  it  evolves  a  deeper  significance,  in 
all  its  phases,  and  chants,  with  its  innumerable  voices, 
solemn  but  jubilant  hymns  of  praise  to  God! 

But  let  no  one  go  forth  to  declare  what  nature  shall  ■ 
do  for  him.  Let  no  one  sound  the  key-note  of  his  own 
desire  first,  and  ask  nature  to  take  up  the  harmony  and 
evolve  it.  Let  one  go  as  a  little  child,  opening  his 
heart,  and  waiting  to  see  what  God  shall  do  unto  him. 
Let  him  accept  just  what  is  sent — clouds  when  clouds 
are  sent,  sunlight  when  sunlight  comes;  little  things, 
rude  things — all  things. 

The  fullest  enjoyment  of  the  country  does  not  arise 


308 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS 


from  stray  excitements  acting  in  straight  lines;  not 
from  august  mountains,  wide  panoramas,  awful  gorges, 
nor  from  any  thing  that  runs  in  upon  you  with  strong 
stimulations.  All  these  things  have  their  place.  But 
they  are  occasional.  They  are  the  sub-base,  and  come 
in  as  the  mighty  undertone  upon  which  soft  and 
various  melodies  float.  A  thousand  daily  little  things 
make  their  offering  of  pleasure  to  those  who  know  how 
to  be  pleased. 

We  have  said  that  there  is  no  difference"between  one 
person  and  another  more  characteristic  and  noticeable 
than  the  facility  of  being  happy.  Some  seem  pierced 
with  half  a  hundred  windows,  through  which  stream 
warmth,  light,  and  sounds  of  delight.  Others  have  but 
one  or  two  stately  doors,  and  they  are  mostly  shut. 
Some  persons  are  always  breaking  out  into  happiness, 
because  every  thing  is  bringing  them  pleasure.  It 
comes  in  at  the  eye,  and  at  the  ear,  at  the  portals  of 
smell,  taste,  and  touch,  in  things  little  and  great,  in 
shapes  and  colors,  in  contrasts  and  analogies,  in  exacti- 
tudes, and  in  fanciful  associations ;  in  homely  life,  and 
in  wild  and  grand  life.  But  others#  there  are  that  go 
for  enjoyment  to  nature  just  as  they  dress  for  company, 
and  receive  pleasure  formally,  and  in  the  stiffness  of 
ceremony.  They  march  out  to  behold  noble  aspects,  as 
if  they  felt  bound  to  keep  up  a  respectable  show  before 
nature.  The  full  enjoyment  of  nature  requires  that  we 
should  be  as  many-sided  as  nature  herself.  It  is  to  be 
considered  that  God  found  a  reason  of  pleasure  in 
every  individual  thing  which  he  has  made,  and  that  an 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS.  309 

education  on  our  part,  toward  God  in  nature,  consists 
in  developing  in  ourselves  a  pleasure  in  every  single 
object  which  exists  about  us.  So  sadly  are  we  brought 
up  in  this  respect,  that  it  must  be  a  very  serious  educa- 
tion to  most  persons. 

As  things  go  in  our  utilitarian  age,  men  look  upon 
the  natural  world  in  one  of  three  ways :  the  first,  as  a 
foundation  for  industry,  and  all  objects  are  regarded  in 
their  relations  to  industry.  Grass  is  for  hay,  flowers 
are  for  medicine,  springs  are  for  dairies,  rocks  are  for 
quarries,  trees  are  for  timber,  streams  are  for  naviga- 
tion or  for  milling,  clouds  are  for  rain,  and  rain  is  foi 
harvests.  The  relation  of  an  object  to  some  commer- 
cial or  domestic  economy,  is  the  end  of  observation. 
Beyond  that  there  is  no  interest  to  it. 

The  second  aspect  in  which  men  behold  nature,  is 
the  purely  scientific.  We  admire  a  man  of  science 
who  is  so  all-sided  that  he  can  play  with  fancy  or 
literality,  with  exactitudes  or  associations,  just  as  he  will. 
But  a  mere  man  of  accuracy,  one  of  those  conscientious- 
eyed  men,  that  will  never  see  any  thing  but  just  what 
is  there,  and  whot  insist  upon  bringing  every  thing  to 
terms ;  who  are  for  ever  dissecting  nature,  and  coming 
to  the  physical  truths  in  their  most  literal  forms,  these 
men  are  our  horror.  We  should  as  soon  take  an 
analytic  chemist  to  dine  with  us,  that  he  might  explain 
the  constituent  elements  of  every  morsel  that  we  ate ; 
or  an  anatomist  into  a  social  company,  to  describe  the 
bones,  and  muscles,  and  nerves  that  were  in  full  play 
in  the  forms  of  dear  friends.    Such  men  think  that 


310 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS. 


nature  is  perfectly  understood  when  her  mechanism  ig 
known;  when  her  gross  and  physical  facts  are  regis- 
tered, and  when  all  her  details  are  catalogued  and  de- 
scribed. These  are  nature's  dictionary-makers.  These 
are  the  men  who  think  that  the  highest  enjoyment  of 
a  dinner  would  be  to  be  present  in  the  kitchen  and 
that  they  might  see  how  the  food  is  compounded  and 

cooked. 
« 

A  third  use  of  nature  is  that  which  poets  and  artists 
make,  who  look  only  for  beauty. 

All  of  these  are  partialists.  They  all  misinterpret, 
because  they  all  proceed  as  if  nature  were  constructed 
upon  so  meager  a  schedule  as  that  which  they  peruse ; 
as  if  it  were  a  mere  matter  of  science,  or  of  commercial 
use,  or  of  beauty ;  whereas  these  are  but  single  develop- 
ments among  hundreds. 

The  earth  has  its  physical  structure  and  machinery, 
well  worth  laborious  study ;  it  has  its  relations  to 
man's  bodily  wants,  from  which  spring  the  vast  activi- 
ties of  industrial  life;  it  has  its  relations  to  the  social 
faculties,  and  the  finer  sense  of  the  beautiful  in  the 
soul ;  but  far  above  all  these  are  its  declared  uses,  as 
an  interpreter  of  God,  a  symbol  of  invisible  spiritual 
truths,  the  ritual  of  a  higher  life,  the  highway  upon 
which  our  thoughts  are  to  travel  toward  immortality, 
aikl  toward  the  realm  of  just  men  made  perfect  that  do 
inherit  it. 

No  one  who  has  made  himself  conversant  with  the 
representations  given  of  the  natural  world  by  the  old 
Hebrew  mind,  but  will  feel  the  infidelity  of  our  modern 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS.  311 


occidental  mind.  When  the  old  prophet  felt  his  sense 
kindled  by  the  divine  touch,  and  read  the  face  of  the 
heavens  and  of  the  earth,  as  God  meant  them  to  be 
read,  how  full  of  meaning  and  of  majesty  were  the 
clouds,  the  mountains,  the  morning  and  the  evening, 
the  storms,  the  birds  and  beasts,  the  insects,  and  the 
grass  through  which  they  creep ! 

When  clouds  begin  to  gather,  and,  growing  dark  and 
blacker,  travel  up  from  the  horizon  full  of  solemn  intent, 
their  folds  moving  upon  themselves,  and  their  whole 
aspect  full  of  an  unspeakable  majesty,  as  if  they  did  not 
see  the  earth,  .nor  know  so  small  a  thing  in  their  head- 
long march  toward  some  distant  goal,  the  Anglo-Saxon 
remarks  that  it  is  a  fine  thunder  gust,  and  speculates 
upon  the  probability  of  rain !  The  old  Hebrew  would 
chant,  in  low  and  reverent  tone,  "He  bowed  the 
heavens  also,  and  came  down,  and  darkness  was  under 
his  feet,  and  he  rode  upon  a  cherub,  and  did  fly,  yea 
he  did  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind.  He  made 
darkness  his  secret  place ;  his  pavilion  round  about  him 
were  dark  waters  and  thick  clouds  of  the  sky."  Thus 
gazing  upon  the  grandeur  of  the  gathering  storm,  be- 
holding in  it  the  robes  which  hid  the  majesty  of  Jeho- 
vah, the  clouds  are  rent  with  lightnings,  and  the 
heaven  roars  with  awful  thunders  which  fly  in  terrible 

•J 

echoes  from  cloudy  cliff  to  cliff,  bellowing  and  rolling 
away  in  sullen  sounds  into  interior  depths  of  the 
heaven.  It  is  the  voice  of  God.  It  is  the  glance  of  the 
eye  of  Him  upon  whom  no  man  can  look  and  live: 
"The  Lord  also  thundered  in  the  heavens,  and  the 


812 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS. 


Highest  gave  his  voice,  hail-stones  and  coals  or 
fire." 

As  the  burden  of  the  storm  passes,  and  we  see  its 
fiery  forks  plunging  upon  the  mountain  with  silent 
vehemence,  we  say,  the  lightning  struck  something ; 
and  we  reflect  upon  electricity  and  lightning-rods,  upon 
Dr.  Franklin  and  his  kite.  The  old  Hebrew  would 
have  thought :  These  be  the  arrows  which  God 
shooteth  forth.  He  searcheth  out  his  enemies.  The 
Lord  sitteth  upon  the  flood.  The  Lord  sitteth  King 
for  ever !  All  the  aspects  of  the  earth  ministered  sub- 
lime conceptions  of  God.  Mountains  were  his  high- 
way. The  clear,  open  sky,  declared  his  glory.  The 
light  was  his  raiment  of  joy ;  the  darkness^of  storms  his 
terrible  apparel  of  judgment.  Flowers  and  sparrows 
taught  his  providence  and  care. 

Our  modern  method  of  instructing  ourselves  in  the 
attributes  of  God  is  the  philosophical  method,  or  the 
method  of  ideas,  as  distinguished  from  the  natural,  or  the 
method  of  feeling  and  imagination.  Seeking  to  evolve 
a  more  symmetrical  and  thorough  view  of  God,  we  have 
relied  almost  wholly  upon  the  reasoning  faculties.  Our 
Deity  is  a  system  of  attributes.  To  the  Hebrews,  God 
was  a  Living  Presence ;  to  us  he  is  a  remote  category 
of  abstractions. 

The  Hebrew  found  God  in  nature,  we  in  the  cate- 
chism. We  do  not  say  that  there  are  no  advantages  in 
a  psychological  method ;  but  only,  that  whatever  we 
gain  in  that  direction,  we  can  never  come  to  a  sense  of 
a  living  and  present  God,  until  we  also  include  in  our 


NATURE  A  MINISTER  OF  HAPPINESS.  813 

methods  the  old  Hebrew  way  of  beholding  God  in 
living  activity,  moving  in  the  heavens  and  along  the 
earth,  guiding  the  day  and  the  night,  and  as  variously 
active  as  all  the  flowers,  the  trees,  the  birds,  the  beasts, 
and  the  nations  of  men,  whom  he  creates,  and  leads 
forth  with  daily  care  and  love. 

14 


XXVIII 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES* 

Lenox,  October,  1854. 

I  HAVE  always  wished  that  there  might  be  a  rock- 
spring  upon  my  place.  I  could  wish  to  have,  back  of 
the  house  some  two  hundred  yards,  a  steep  and  tree- 
covered  height  of  broad,  cold,  and  mossy  rocks ;  rocks 
that  have  seen  trouble,  and  been  upheaved  by  deep  inward 
forces,  and  that  are  lying  in  every  way  of  noble  confusion, 
full  of  clefts,  and  dark  and  mysterious  passages,  without 
echoes  in  them,  upholstered  with  mosses  and  pendulous 
vines.  Upon  all  this  silent  tumult  of  wild  and  shat- 
tered rocks,  struck  through  with  stillness  and  rest,  the 
thick  forests  should  shed  down  a  perpetual  twilight. 
The  only  glow  that  ever  chased  away  its  solemn 
shadows  should  be  the  red  rose-light  of  sunsets,  shot 
beneath  the  branches  and  through  the  trunks,  lighting 
up  the  gray  rocks  with  strange  golden  glory.  What 
light  is  so  impressive  as  this  last  light  of  the  day 
streaming  into  a  forest  so  dark  that  even  insects  leave 
it  silent. 

In  such  a  rock-forest  as  I  have  spoken  of,  far  up  in 
one  of  its  silent  aisles,  a  spring  should  burst  forth, 
making  haste  from  the  seams  of  the  rock,  as  if  just 
touched  with  the  prophet's  rod,  cold,  clear,  copious,  and 
musical  from  its  birth.    All  the  way  to  the  outer  edge 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES 


315 


of  the  forest  it  should  find  its  own  channels,  and  live 
its  own  life,  unshaped  by  human  hands.  But,  before 
the  sun  touched  it,  we  would  have  a  rock-reservoir,  into 
which  it  should  gather  its  congregation  of  drops,  now 
about  to  go  forth  into  useful  life.  Thence  it  should 
have  liberty  of  will  to  flow  through  strong  pipes  into 
every  chamber  of  the  house.  And  it  should  be  to 
every  room  copious  as  the  atmosphere,  so  that  one 
might  bathe  in  molten  ice  every  hour  of  the  day,  if  he 
chose,  without  fear  of  exhausting  the  fountain,  and  in 
the  joy  of  abundance  beyond  all  squandering. 

Just  such  a  spring  I  have  not,  and  can  not  have. 
One  just  as  different  as  possible  I  have,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  in  the  open  field.  There  are  no  vines  or 
bushes  to  cover  it  in  summer ;  no  trees  send  down  their 
fiery  leaves  to  be  quenched  in  its  autumnal  stream.  It 
bubbles  up  from  a  soft  soil,  and  flows  away  through 
rank  grasses.  Coming  up  from  a  bed  of  gravel,  it  is 
every  day  shifting  its  mouth,  and  if  stopped  up  in  one 
place,  it  breaks  out  in  another,  like  the  heart's  instincts, 
whose  channels  you  may  appoint,  but  whose  flowing  is 
beyond  your  control.  I  have  often  scooped  away  the 
soil  trodden  by  cattle  all  about  this  cold-boiling  spring. 
For  a  moment  the  little  pool  will  be  full  of  sand  and 
mud ;  and  I  have  never  watched  it  clearing  itself  and 
coming  back  to  transparency  without  thinking  that  just 
so  human  life  cleanses  itself.  A  stagnant  heart,  when 
deeply  disturbed,  is  long  in  settling ;  but  a  living,  out- 
flowing heart,  carries  away  its  sorrows  down  its  own 
stream,  and  deposits  them  speedily  far  from  the  fount. 


316 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


It  is  all  that  my  poor  little  spring  can  do,  in  summer, 
to  maintain  a  respectable  drink  for  the  cattle  which 
pasture  about  it.  But  these  are  the  days  of  its  humilia- 
tion. It  has  periods  of  greatness.  In  the  spring  and 
in  late  autumn,  it  is  the  happy  parent  of  an  illustrious 
stream  of  water,  that,  even  at  a  hundred  paces  distant,  is 
ankle  deep.  It  is  possessed  by  the  pretty  vanity  of  all 
rivers,  and  flowing  down  a  little  ways,  it  turns  back  to 
see  what  it  has  been  doing,  thus  twining  and  looping 
itself,  like  a  bit  of  white  ribbon  carelessly  thrown  down. 
It  lifts  up  its  voice  over  roots,  and  gurgles  around 
stones;  it  excavates  little  pools,  and  institutes  in  them 
all  the  bubbles,  the  pet  eddies,  and  diminutive  currents, 
upper  and  under,  which  big  rivers  are  known  to  prac- 
tice on  a  larger  scale.  Indeed,  it  has  also  its  pin-fish, 
and  when,  some  ^acres  further  down,  it  has  earned  the 
title  of  brooh,  it  is  the  belief  of  all  the  boys  in  this 
neighborhood  that  there  are  trout  in  it.  But  these 
mythical  personages,  like  ancient  ghosts,  are  never  seen 
by  any  who  go  on  purpose  to  see  them.  But  you  will 
find  much  else  well  worth  seeing  if  you  walk,  on  a  right 
cool  day,  down  all  the  brook-side  to  the  edge  of  Laurel 
Lake,  not  a  long  though  a  circuitous  walk.  For  there 
is  a  peculiar  charm  in  a  perfectly  transparent  brook, 
flowing  gently  over  a  pebbly  bottom,  in  and  out  of 
bushes,  across  the  road,  through  the  meadows,  zig-zag, 
up  and  down,  winding  about  as  if  it  were,  like  our- 
selves, sauntering  for  mere  pleasure,  and  searching  for 
all  the  beautiful  places.  What  can  be  more  delightful 
than  a  clear-eyed  brook  by  the  road-side,  traveling  for 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


317 


miles  with  you,  sometimes  hid  but  heard,  then  flashing 
out  with  impetuous  joy  of  return,  eyeing  you  from 
around  a  rock,  or  spreading  itself  a  little  that  it  may 
mimic  your  face  in  its  dazzling  mirror,  then  running 
away  again,  under  green  bushes  with  a  coy  and  sedate 
look,  as  if  mischief  were  far  from  its  thoughts;  and 
then  dashing  down  a  little  descent,  laughing  all  the 
way  at  its  own  musical  tricks  ?  Now  it  plashes  right 
across  your  path,  to  cool  your  horse's  feet,  if  you  ride — 
your  own,  if  you  walk ;  then  you  hear  it  running  away 
through  the  leaves  of  the  wood,  into  which  it  has  turned 
apparently  to  cut  up  some  extreme  antics,  not  grave 
enough  for  the  open  road. 

But  our  little  spring-begotten  brook,  after  a  mile's 
circuit,  gives  up  its  individuality,  and  is  spread  abroad 
through  the  pet  lake.  A  beautiful  sheet  of  water  it  is, 
but  more  beautiful  by  far  it  was  before  rapacious  hands 
cleared  away  the  fine  forests  that  girded  it  round.  But 
no  violence  can  destroy  its  morning  brightness,  nor  the 
delicate  evening  lights  that  glance  from  its  tranquil 
surface.  I  never  pass  it  at  evening,  in  the  twilight,  the 
faint  glow  of  the  skies  just  dying  out  of  its  surface,  and 
the  darkness  settling  down  upon  those  edges  which  are 
yet  forest-shaded,  without  pausing  to  be  stirred  with  its 
mysterious  influences. 

But  there  is  something  besides  poetry  about  the  lake. 
There  is  a  "  Water-Lily"  larger  than  the  largest  Victoria 
Regia  that  was  ever  exhibited  at  a  horticultural  show. 
It  is  yellow  within,  white  without,  and  green  at  the 
bottom.    It  is  so  large  that.it  will  hold  several  persons, 


818 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


and  serves  to  enliven  the  lake,  and  bear  us  to  the 
fishing-grounds.  But  there  is  no  use  to  which  the  boat 
is  ever  put  productive  of  more  pleasure  than  mere 
sauntering.  We  gently  pull  along  the  shores,  with 
strokes  so  quiet  that  hardly  a  bubble  springs  from  the 
oar,  or  a  wake  follows  the  keel. 

Are  there  degrees  in  the  sense  of  solitariness  ?  One 
is  alone  in  a  deep  woods,  but  so  much  life  is  found  even 
there,  and  such  nearness  of  objects  that  have  life  by 
association,  that  we  do  not  think  of  forests  as  lonely 
places.  Indeed,  we  used  to  feel,  after  long  prairie  rides, 
a  most  refreshing  joy  when  we  struck  the  u  timber.'4 
We  had  company  as  soon  as  we  had  trees.  Next  in 
loneliness  is  a  hill-top,  lifted  up  so  high  in  the  air  that 
you  are  above  all  houses,  all  objects,  all  near  heights, 
until  you  feel  that  you  are  inhabiting  the  very  air. 
There  is  a  certain  wild  sense  of  solitariness  in  that,  such 
as  one  might  be  supposed  to  feel  who  should  sail  in  a 
balloon,  in  a  quiet  moonlight  night,  over  forests,  over 
mountains,  over  cities,. that  lay  so  far  down  that  their 
lights  were  like  pale  glow-worms  by  the  road  side.  As 
I  walk  in  the  silent  evenings  over  the  hill-top,  and  the 
mountain  winds  come  playing  about  my  hair,  it  seems 
as  if  I  should  certainly  soon  hear  a  voice  of  spirits ; — 
and  there  is  no  loneliness  greater  than  in  a  place  where 
one  might  meet  with  spiftts  of  the  air. 

And  yet,  upon  thinking  again,  we  believe  one  to  be 
yet  more  solitary  who  sits  alone  in  his  little  boat,  upon 
a  wide  piece  of  water,  sees  the  sun  go  down,  hears  the 
last  noises  of  distant  farms  die  away,  sees  the  trees 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


319 


growing  dark  and  indistinct,  sees  the  shadows  creeping 
upon  the  water  and  effacing  all  shore  lines,  sees  the 
stars  coming  one  by  one,  hears  every  drop  of  water 
dripping  from  his  oar,  hears  all  those  sounds  which 
daylight  never  hears,  which  are  unaccountable  because 
unfamiliar.  As  one  thus  lingers  far  into  evening,  sepa- 
rated from  life  not  by  distance  alone,  but  by  the  untrod 
den  waters,  that  will  not  endure  a  footstep,  he  almost 
loses  his  own  identity,  so  do  fancies  work  upon  him. 

But  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  solitudes. 
Some  are  very  empty,  and  some  very  populous ;  some 
are  dreary,  and  others  most  cheerful;  some  oppress 
and  suffocate  the  soul,  while  others  refresh  it,  and 
tempt  it  forth  into  that  freedom  from  which  it  shrinks 
among  the  hard  ways  of  life ; — just  as  birds,  in  the  deep 
solitude  of  the  woods  will  sing  and  disport  themselves 
as  they  never  dare  to  do  in  the  open  air  where  hawks 
are  flying. 

One  ought  to  love  society  if  he  wishes  to  enjoy  soli- 
tude. It  is  a  social  nature  t^at  solitude  works  upon 
with  the  most  various  power.  If  one  is  misanthropic, 
and  betakes  himself  to  loneliness  that  he  may  get  away 
from  hateful  things,  solitude  is  a  silent  emptiness  to 
him.  But  as,  after  a  bell  has  tolled  or  rung,  we  hear 
its  sounds  dying  away  in  vibrations  fainter  and  fainter. 
and  when  they  have  wholly  ceased,  feel  that  the  very 
silence  is  musical  too,  so  is  it  with  solitude,  which  is  but 
a  few  bars  of  rest  between  strains  of  life,  and  would  not 
be  what  it  is  if  we  did  not  go  from  activity  to  it,  and 
into  activity  from  it. 


320 


SPKINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


Silence  is  thus  a  novelty;  and  a  sympathy  with  forms 
of  nature,  and  with  phenomena  of  light  or  twilight,  is 
heightened  by  its  contrast  with  ordinary  experience, 
Besides,  one  likes  to  stand  out  alone  before  himself.  In 
life  he  is  acting  and  acted  upon.  A  throng  of  excite- 
ments are  spurring  him  through  various  rapid  races. 
Self-consideration  is  almost  lost.  He  scarcely  knows 
what  of  himself  is  himself,  and  what  is  but  the  working 
of  others  upon  him.  It  is  good,  now  and  then,  to  sit 
by  one's  self,  as  if  all  the  world  were  dead,  and  see 
what  is  left  of  that  which  glowed  and  raged  along  the 
arena.  What  are  we  out  of  temptation,  out  of  excite- 
ment? In  the  loom  we  are  the  shuttle,  beaten  back' 
and  forth,  carrying  the  thread  of  affairs  out  of  which 
grows  the  fabric  of  life.  Slip  the  band ;  stop  the  loom.. 
What  is  the  thread  ?    What  is  the  fabric  ? 

Then  there  are  some  thoughts  that  will  no  more 
come  upon  the  soul  among  rude  sounds  and  harsh 
labors  than  dews  will  fall  at  mid-day.  There  are 
message-thoughts  which  come  to  us  from  God;  there 
are  soul-certainties  of  God  himself;  there  are  convic- 
tions of  immortality  far  deeper  than  reasonings  ever 
bring — intuitions,  eye-sight,  rather  than  deductions. 

That  longing  which  the  soul  feels  that  there  should 
be  some  voice  of  God,  actual,  audible,  is  never  so  great 
as  in  solitudes  of  beautiful  scenery.  Why  will  He  not 
speak  to  us?  What  need  of  an  everlasting  silence? 
We  speak  to  Him,  and  none  answers.  We  pour  out 
our  heart's  confession;  it  dies  away  into  the  air,  and 
none  answers.    We  yearn  and  beseech  for  the  food  of 


SPEINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


321 


life,  on  wliich  the  soul  of  man  must  feed.  Whatever  we 
get,  we  get  it  silently.  Minds  speak,  trees  speak,  waters 
speak,  human  life,  with  mingled  myriad  voices,  speaks ; 
but  God  never!  He  is  the  Eternal  Silence.  It  was 
not  always  so.  In  olden  days  men  heard  the  voice  of 
God.  It  shall  not  always  be  so.  That  voice  will  be 
heard  again.  I  have  a  firm  faith  of  the  future.  I  shall 
behold  him  face  to  face.  I  shall  hear  him  and  be  satis- 
fied. But  oh !  in  the  struggle,  in  the  task  of  duty,  and 
the  strife  of  battle,  one  word  of  God  would  be  worth  all 
the  voices  of  that  angelic  choir  which  sang  the  coming 
of  Christ !  But  wait,  0  my  soul !  Thou  art  a  seed 
just  sprouted.  Ask  not  for  blossoms  before  thy  leaves 
are  grown ;  ask  not  for  fruit  before  thy  blossoms  open. 

There  are  times  in  the  seclusion  of  the  forest,  or  upon 
a  sequestered  lake,  or  upon  a  leafy  hill-top,  that  one 
can  bear  to  unbury  their  dead,  behold  again  their  pale 
faces,  unlock  old  joys  of  love,  and  let  the  specters  forth. 
There  are  some  things  which  one  can  think  of  only 
once  in  a  great  while. 

Our  solitudes  act  upon  affections  and  friendships 
just  as  death  does.  For,  death  draws  into  the  grave 
not  alone  the  dishonored  body,  but  also  all  those  weak- 
nesses of  the  soul  and  imperfections  which  sprang  from 
its  alliance  with  the  body,  and  we  then  see  our  friends 
purged  from  their  faults,  dressed  in  the  rarest  excel- 
lencies, and  touched  with  golden  glory.  Thus,  too,  is 
it  in  the  separation  and  solitude  of  the  wilderness. 
They  whom  we  love  rise  up  in  a  mellowed  remem- 
brance, as  a  tree  stands  charmed  in  a  midsummer's 
14* 


822 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


moonlight,  its  broken  branches  hidden,  its  unequal 
boughs  all  rounded  out  and  softened  into  symmetry, 
and  the  whole  glowing  with  silver  light,  as  if  trans- 
figured, Then  we  entertain  thoughts  of  affection  such 
as  might  beseem  a  God.  We  enter  into  its  royalties, 
and  conceive  its  function,  and  know  that  it  is  the  life 
of  the  world,  the  breath  of  every  holy  soul,  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  Divine  Heart,  and  the  substance  of 
heaven.  When  the  tranquil  eye  of  God,  looking 
around,  traces  that  circle  within  which  love  wholly 
prevails,  so  that  all  things  spring  from  it,  and  it  lives  in 
them  always  and  perfectly,  then  that  circle  is  heaven, 
and  such  are  the  bounds  thereof. 

But  it  is  not  yet  so  dark  that  we  can  not  see  those 
dashes  of  wind  upon  the  lake's  surface.  See  the  dim 
flash  of  distant  lightnings  upon  the  horizon !  At  every 
flash  what  piles  of  clouds,  like  mountainous  rocks  and 
gloomy  precipices,  start  forth  in  the  heavens!  Like 
the  dropping  of  a  curtain  the  darkness  hides  them 
again.  They  come  and  go,  spring  forth  and  drop  back, 
palpitate  again  in  light,  and  die  suddenly  into  dark- 
ness. The  wind  moans  in  the  woods.  You  can  hear 
the  uplifted  boughs,  which  you  can  not  see,  creaking 
and  groaning  through  the  forest.  As  you  wend  your 
way  along  the  road,  whirls  of  dust  beset  you.  The  air 
grows  darker.  The  stars  are  hidden.  It  is  the  coming 
of  the  long-sought  rain.  For  weeks  there  has  been 
drought.  A  heaven  without  the  blessing  of  rain  has 
well-nigh  devoured  the  earth.  The  shepherd  of  the  air 
has  long  since  driven  his  fleecy  flocks  of  cloud  to  pas 


SPRINGS  AND  SOLITUDES. 


323 


ture  in  other  realms,  and  none  have  wandered  in  the 
clear,  hot  wilderness  above  us.  So  we  shall  have  rain ! 
Bring  forth  every  vessel  I    Let  the  eaves  be  watched ! 

The  night  is  spent,  the  sun  comes  up  without  a  drop 
of  rain !  The  clouds  are  all  gone,  and  the  Drought  yet 
rules  in  the  heayens  and  oppresses  the  earth!  Will 
not  God  hear  the  universal  prayer  for  rain  ?  A  mil- 
lion flowers  pray  for  it ;  innumerable  forests  reach 
forth  their  hands  for  it ;  every  blade  of  the  much- 
enduring  grass  beseeches  it ;  men  and  beasts  long  for 
it.    How  long,  0  God  I  how  long  ? 


X  X IX. 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 

Lenox,  October,  1854. 

At  this  season  of  the  year  it  requires  but  a  few  weeks, 
and  often  but  a  few  daj^s,  to  work  great  changes  upon 
the  face  of  Nature.  Lenox  in  the  middle  of  September 
stood  -in  untarnished  green.  Grass  and  flowers  were 
plump  and  succulent  with  copious  juices.  Here  and 
there  a  coquetting  maple  leaf  displayed  gay  colors  among 
its  yet  sober  fellow  leaves.  A  shade  of  yellow,  a  bright 
streak  of  red,  might  be  seen  in  single  trees,  as  if  Nature, 
like  an  artist,  was  trying  its  colors,  to  make  sure  of  the 
right  shades  before  laying  them  upon  the  gorgeous 
canvas.  Yet  all  these  made  no  impression  upon  the 
vast  front  of  the  mountains  around  us,  that  still  lav 
patiently,  like  mighty  dromedaries,  camped  down  against 
the  horizon — a  caravan  that  shall  never  rise  up  to  the 
voice  of  a  driver,  nor  move,  until  He  who  formed  them 
shall  scatter  them ! 

It  is  now  mid-October.  All  things  are  changed.  Of 
all  the  railroads  near  New  York  none  can  compare  for 
beauty  of  scenery  with  the  Housatonic  from  Newtown 
up  to  Pittsfield,  but  especially  from  New  Mil  ford  to 
Lenox. 

That  scenery  which  a  few  weeks  ago  stood  in 
summer  green  now  seemed  enchanted.  The  Housa- 
tonic was  the  same.  The  skies  were  the  same.  The 
mountain  forms  were  unchanged.    But  they  had  bios- 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


325 


somed  into  resplendent  colors  from  top  to  base.  It  wag 
strange  to  see  such  huge  mountains,  that  are  images  of 
firmness  and  majesty,  now  tricked  out  with  fairy  pomp, 
as  if  all  the  spirits  of  the  air  had  reveled  there,  and 
hung  their  glowing  scarfs  on  every  leaf  and  bough. 
We  were  almost  sorry  to  reach  our  destination  and 
leave  the  cars.  But  the  first  step  on  our  own  ground 
brought  content. 

Once  more  I  am  upon  this  serene  hill-top !  The  air 
is  very  clear,  very  still,  and  very  solemn,  or,  rather, 
tenderly  sad,  in  its  serene  brightness.  It  is  not  that 
moist  spring  air,  full  of  the  smell  of  wood,  of  the  soil, 
and  of  the  odor  of  vegetation,  which  warm  winds  bring  to 
us  from  the  south.  It  is  not  that  summer  atmosphere, 
full  of  alternations  of  haze  and  fervent  clearness,  as  if 
Nature  were  brewing  every  day  some  influence  for  its 
myriad  children ;  sometimes  in  showers,  and  sometimes 
with  coercive  heat  upon  root  and  leaf ;  and,  like  a  uni- 
versal taskmaster,  was  driving  up  the  hours  to  accom- 
plish the  labors  of  the  year.  No !  In  these  autumn 
days  there  is  a  sense  of  leisure  and  of  meditation.  The 
sun  seems  to  look  down  upon  the  labors  of  its  fiery 
hands  with  complacency.  Be  satisfied,  0  seasonable 
Sun !  Thou  hast  shaped  an  ample  year,  and  art  gar- 
nering up  harvests  which  well  may  swell  thy  rejoicing 
heart  with  gracious  gladness. 

One  wrho  breaks  off  in  the  summer,  and  returns  in 
autumn  to  the  hills,  needs  almost  to  come  to  a  new 
acquaintance  with  the  most  familiar  things.  It  is  an* 
other  world ;  or  it  is  the  old  world  a-masquerading 


326 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


and  you  halt,  like  one  scrutinizing  a  disguised  friend, 
between  the  obvious  dissemblance  and  the  subtile  like- 
ness. 

Southward  of  our  front  door  there  stood  two  elms, 
leaning  their  branches  toward  each  other,  forming  a 
glorious  arch  of  green.  Now,  in  faint  yellow  they 
grow  attenuated  and  seem  as  if  departing;  they  are 
losing  their  leaves  and  fading  out  of  sight,  as  trees  do  in 
twilight.  Yonder,  over  against  that  young  growth  of  „ 
birch  and  evergreen,  stood,  all  summer  long,  a  perfect 
maple  tree,  rounded  out  on  every  side,  thick  with  luxu- 
riant foliage,  and  dark  with  greenness,  save  when  the 
morning  sun,  streaming  through  it,  sent  transparency  to 
its  very  heart.  Now  it  is  a  tower  of  gorgeous  red.  So 
sober  and  solemn  did  it  seem  all  summer  that  I  should 
think  as  soon  to  see  a  prophet  dancing  at  a  peasants' 
holiday,  as  it  transfigured  to  such  intense  gayety ! 
Its  fellows,  too,  the  birches  and  the  walnuts,  burn  from 
head  to  foot  with  fires  that  glow  but  never  consume. 

But  these  holiday  hills !  Have  the  evening  clouds, 
suffused  with  sunset,  dropped  down  and  become  fixed  into 
solid  forms  ?  Have  the  rainbows  that  followed  autumn 
storms  faded  upon  the  mountains  and  left  their  mantles 
there?  Yet,  with  all  their  brilliancy,  how  modest  do 
they  seem;  how  patient  when  bare,  or  burdened  with 
winter ;  how  cheerful  when  flushed  with  summer-green ; 
and  how  modest  when  they  lift  up  their  wreathed  and 
crowned  heads  in  the  resplendent  days  of  autumn ! 

I  stand  alone  upon  the  peaceful  summit  of  this  hill, 
and  turn  in  every  direction.    The  east  is  all  a-glow; 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


327 


the  blue  north,  flushes  all  her  hills  with  radiance ;  the. 
west  stands  in  burnished  armor;  the  southern  hills 
buckle  the  zone  of  the  horizon  together  with  emeralds 
and  rubies,  such  as  were  never  set  in  the  fabled  girdle 
of  the  gods !  Of  gazing  there  can  not  be  enough.  The 
hunger  of  the  eye  grows  by  feeding. 

Only  the  brotherhood  of  evergreens — the  pine,  the 
cedar,  the  spruce,  and  the  hemlock — refuse  to  join  this 
universal  revel.  They  wear  their  sober  green  straight 
through  autumn  and  winter,  as  if  they  were  set  to  keep 
open  the  path  of  summer  through  the  whole  year,  and 
girdle  all  seasons  together  with  a  clasp  of  endless  green. 
But  in  vain  do  they  give  solemn  examples  to  the  merry 
leaves  which  frolic  with  every  breeze  that  runs  sweet  riot 
in  the  glowing  shades.  Gay  leaves  will  not  be  coun- 
seled, but  will  die  bright  and  laughing.  But  both  to- 
gether— the  transfigured  leaves  of  deciduous  trees  and 
the  calm  unchangeableness  of  evergreens — how  more 
beautiful  are  they  than  either  alone !  The  solemn  pine 
brings  color  to  the  cheek  of  the  beeches,  and  the  scarlet 
and  golden  maples  rest  gracefully  upon  the  dark  foliage 
of  the  million-fingered  pine. 

All  summer  long  these  leaves  have  wrought  their 
tasks.  They  have  plied  their  laboratory,  and  there 
that  old  chemist,  the  Sun,  hath  prepared  all  the  juices 
of  the  trees.  Now  hath  come  their  play-spell.  Nature 
gives  them  a  jubilee.  It  is  a  concert  of  colors  for  the 
eye.  What  a  mighty  chorus  of  colors  do  the  trees  roll 
down  the  valleys,  up  the  hill-sides,  and  over  the  moun- 
tains ! 


328 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


Before  October  we  sought  and  found  colors  in  single 
tones,  in  flowers,  in  iris- winking  dew-drops,  in  westward- 
trooping  clouds.  But  when  the  Year,  having  wrought 
and  finished  her  solid  structures,  unbends  and  conse- 
crates the  glad  October  month  to  fancy,  then  ail  hues 
that  were  before  scattered  in  lurking  flowers,  in  clouds, 
upon  plumed  birds,  and  burnished  insects,  are  let  loose 
like  a  flood  and  poured  abroad  in  the  wild  magnifi- 
cence of  Divine  bounty.  The  earth  lifts  up  its  head 
crowned  as  no  monarch  was  ever  crowned,  and  the 
seasons  go  forth  toward  winter,  chanting  to  God  a 
hymn  of  praise  that  may  fitly  carry  with  it  the  hearts 
of  all  men,  and  bring  forth  in  kindred  joy  the  sympa- 
thetic spirits  of  the  dead. 

These  are  the  days  that  one  fain  would  be  loose  from 
the  earth  and  wander  forth  as  a  spirit,  or  lie  bedded  in 
some  buoyant  cloud,  to  float  above  the  vast  expanse,  in 
the  silence  of  the  upper  air.  How  we  would  feign  be 
voyagers,  pursuing  the  seasons  through  all  their  lati- 
tudes, and  no  longer  stand  to  wait  their  coming  and 
going  about  our  fixed  habitations. 

When  we  were  here  in  August,  the  odorous  barns 
were  full  of  new-mown  hay,  and  the  hay  was  full  of 
buried  crickets  and  locusts,  that  chirped  away  as  merrily 
from  the  smothered  mow  as  if  it  were  no  prison.  The 
barns  now  are  still.  The  field-crickets  are  gone,  the 
locust  is  gone,  and  the  hay  has  lost  its  clover-smell. 
In  August  we  loved  to  throw  wide  open  the  doors, 
upon  the  threshing-floor,  and  let  the  wind  through. 
But  now  only  the  sunny  door  looking  south  stands 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


829 


open.  No  lithe  swallow  twitters  in  and  out,  or  in  hia 
swift  flight  marks  dark  circles  in  the  sky,  gone  as  soon 
as  made. 

There  are  two  barns.  The  floor  of  the  one  is  covered 
with  shocks  of  corn,  whose  golden  ears,  split  through 
the  husk,  are  showing  their  burnished  rows  of  grain. 
The  other  floor  is  heaped  with  unwinnowed  buckwheat. 
O !  what  cakes  shall  yet  rise  out  of  that  dusky  pile ! 
But  now  the  buckwheat  lies  in  heaps  of  chaff  that  swell 
the  bulk,  but  diminish  the  value.  If  we  could  sell 
grain  in  the  chaff  as  we  can  books,  farming  would  be 
very  profitable. 

I  love  to  sit  just  within  the  sunny  edge  of  the  south 
door,  whose  prospect  is  large  and  beautiful,  with  an 
unread  book  for  company.  For  a  book  is  set  to  sharpen, 
not  to  feed  the  appetite.  It  whets  the  drowsy  thought, 
and  puts  observation  into  the  eye.  The  best  books  do 
not  think  for  us,  but  stir  us  to  think.  They  are  lenses 
through  which  we  look — not  mere  sacks  stuffed  with 
knowledge. 

A  wagon  rolls  past,  rattling  over  the  stones.  From 
under  the  unthreshed  straw  mice  squeak  and  quarrel ; 
lonesome  spiders  are  repairing  their  webs  in  the 
windows  that  catch  nothing  but  dust  and  chaff  Yet 
these  bum-bailiffs  have  grown  plump  on  something. 
I  wonder  what  a  spider  is  thinking  about  for  hours 
together,  down  in  the  dark  throat  of  his  web,  where  he 
lies  as  still  as  if  he  were  dead. 

Our  old  Shanghai  steps  up  with  a  pert  how-do-ye-do- 
sir,  cocking  his  eye  one-sidedly  at  you,  and  uttering 


330 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


certain  nondescript  guttural  sounds.  He  walks  cff 
crooning  to  himself  and  his  dames.  It  is  all  still  again. 
There  are  no  flies  now  to  buzz  in  the  air.  There  is  not 
wind  enough  to  quiver  a  hanging  straw,  or  to  pipe  a 
leaf-dance  along  the  fence.  You  fall  into  some  sweet 
fancy  that  inhabits  silence,  when  all  at  once,  with  a 
tremendous  vociferation,  out  flies  a  hen  from  over  your 
head,  with  an  outrageous  noise,  clattering  away  as  if 
you  had  been  throwing  stones  at  her,  or  abusing  her 
beyond  endurance.  The  old  Shanghai  takes  up  the 
case,  and  the  whole  mob  of  hens  join  the  outcry.  The 
whole  neighborhood  is  raised,  and  distant  roosters  from 
far-off  farms  echo  the  shrill  complaints.  An  egg  is  all 
very  well  in  its  way,  but  we  never  could  see  any  jus- 
tification for  such  vociferous  cackling.  Every  hen  in 
the  crowd  is  as  much  excited  as  if  she  had  performed 
the  deed  herself.  And  the  cock  informs  the  whole 
region  round  about  that  there  never  was  so  smart  a 
crowd  of  hens  as  he  leads. 

Nothing  seems  so  aimless  and  simple  as  a  hen.  She 
usually  goes  about  in  a  vague  and  straggling  manner, 
articulating  to  herself  cacophonous  remarks  upon 
various  topics.  The  greatest  event  in  a  hen's  life  is 
compound,  being  made  up  of  an  egg  and  a  cackle. 
Then  onlv  she  shows  enthusiasm  when  she  descends 
from  the  nest  of  duty  and  proclaims  her  achievement. 
If  you  chase  her,  she  runs  cackling;  if  you  pelt  her 
with  stones,  she  streams  through  the  air  cackling  all 
abroad  till  the  impulse  has  run  out,  when  she  subsides 
quietly  into  a  silly,  gadding  hen.    Now  and  then  an 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


331 


eccentric  hen  may  be  found  stepping  quite  beyond  the 
limits  of  hen-propriety.  One  such  has  persisted  in 
laying  her  daily  egg  in  the  house.  She  would  steal 
noiselessly  in  at  the  open  door,  walk  up  stairs,  and 
leave  a  plump  egg  upon  the  children's  bed.  The  next 
day  she  would  honor  the  sofa.  On  one  occasion  she 
selected  my  writing-table,  and  scratching  my  papers 
about,  left  her  card,  that  I  might  not  blame  the  children 
or  servants  for  scattering  my  manuscripts.  Her  persis- 
tent determination  was  amusing.  One  Sabbath  morning 
we  drove  her  out  of  the  second-story  window,  then 
again  from  the  front  hall.  In  a  few  moments  she  was 
heard  behind  the  house,  and  on  looking  out  the  window, 
she  was  just  disappearing  into  the  bed-room  window  on 
the  ground  floor!  Word  was  given,  but  before  any 
one  could  reach  the  place,  she  had  bolted  out  of  the 
window  with  victorious  cackle,  and  her  white,  warm 
egg  lay  upon  the  lounge.  I  proposed  to  open  the  pan- 
try-window, set  the  egg-dish  within  her  reach,  and  let 
her  put  them  up  herself ;  but  those  in  authority  would 
not  permit  such  a  deviation  from  propriety.  Such  a 
breed  of  hens  could  never  be  popular  with  the  boys. 
It  would  spoil  that  glorious  sport  of  hunting  hen's  nests. 

How  utterly  different  are  birds  from  their  gross  con- 
geners. Already  the  snow-sparrows  have  come  down 
from  the  north,  and  are  hopping  in  our  hedges,  sure 
precursors  of  winter.  Robins  are  gathering  in  flocks 
in  the  orchards,  and  preparing  for  their  southern  flight. 
May  his  gun  for  ever  miss  fire  that  would  thin  the 
ranks  of  singing-birds ! 


o32 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


Lifted  far  above  all  harm  of  fowler  or  impediment  of 
mountain,  wild  fowl  are  steadily  flying  southward.  The 
simple  sight  of  them  fills  the  imagination  with  pictures. 
They  have  all  summer  long  called  to  each  other  from 
the  reedy  fens  and  wild  oat-fields  of  the  far  north. 
Summer  is  already  extinguished  there.  "Winter  is  fol- 
lowing their  track,  and  marching  steadily  toward  us 
The  spent  flowers,  the  seared  leaves,  the  thinning  tree 
tops,  the  morning  rime  of  frost,  have  borne  witness  of 
the  change  on  earth ;  and  these  caravans  of  the  upper 
air  confirm  the  tidings.  Summer  is  gone ;  winter  is 
coming ! 

The  wind  has  risen  to-day.  It  is  not  one  of  those 
gusty,  playful  winds,  that  frolic  with  the  trees.  It 
is  a  wind  high  up  in  the  air,  that  moves  steadily  with 
a  solemn  sound,  as  if  it  were  the  spirit  of  summer 
journeying  past  us ;  and,  impatient  of  delay,  it  doth  not 
stoop  to  the  earth,  but  touches  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
with  a  murmuring  sound,  sighing  a  sad  farewell,  and 
passing  on. 

Such  days  fill  one  with  pleasant  sadness.  How  sweet 
a  pleasure  is  there  in  sadness !  It  is  not  sorrow ;  it  is 
not  despondency;  it  is  not  gloom!  It  is  one  of  the 
moods  of  joy.  At  any  rate  I  am  very  happy,  and  yet 
it  is  sober,  and  very  sad  happiness.  It  is  the  shadow 
of  joy  upon  the  soul !  I  can  reason  about  these 
changes.  I  can  cover  over  the  dying  leaves  with  imagi- 
nations as  bright  as  their  own  hues ;  and,  by  christian 
faith,  transfigure  the  whole  scene  with  a  blessed  vision 
of  joyous  dying  and  glorious  resurrection.    But  what 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 


333 


then?  Such  thoughts  glow  like  evening  clouds,  and 
not  far  beneath  them  are  the  evening  twilights,  into 
whose  dusk  they  will  soon  melt  away.  And  all  com- 
munions, and  all  admirations,  and  all  associations; 
celestial  or  terrene,  come  alike  into  a  pensive  sadness, 
that  is  even  sweeter  than  our  joy.  It  is  the  minor  key 
of  the  thoughts.  A  right  sadness  will  sometimes  cure 
a  sorrow. 

The  asters,  which  are  the  floral  rear-guards  of  the 
year,  are  saying  to  me,  that  no  more  flowers  shall  come 
after  them.  The  very  brightness  of  their  faces  makes 
me  sad  to  think  that  the  next  blossoms  shall  be  frost- 
blooms.  I  know  that  seeds  and  roots  do  not  die ;  that 
the  winter  is  but  a  vacation,  in  which  the  year  rests 
from  its  works ;  that  all  things  shall  come  again.  What 
then  ?  It  is  sad  nevertheless  to  see  summer  dying  out. 
There  is  some  influence  in  this  hush  of  the  heavens,  in 
the  helplessness  of  vegetation,  that  by  leaves  and  root 
striving  against  the  cold  nights,  can  only  gather  strength 
to  die  in  glorious  colors,  which  makes  one  glad  and  sad 
together.  Your  smiles  end  in  tears,  and  tears  exhale 
to  smiles  again. 

"Among  all  the  grateful  gifts  of  summer,  none,  I 
think,  has  been  deeper  &nd  more  various  than  the  sight 
of  the  enjoyment  of  the  children.  I  do  pity  children 
in  a  city.  There  is  no  place  for  them.  The  streets  aie 
full  of  bad  boys  that  they  must  not  play  with,  and  the 
house  is  rich  in  furniture  that  they  must  not  touch.  They 
are  always  in  somebody's  way,  or  making  a  noise  out  of 
proper  time — for  the  twenty-fifth  hour  of  the  day  is  tho 


334  MID-OCTOBER  DAYS. 

only  time  when  people  are  willing  that  children  should 
be  noisy.  There  is  no  grass  in  the  fieldless,  parkless 
city  for  their  feet,  no  trees  for  climbing,  no  orchards  or 
nut-laden  trees  for  their  enterprise. 

But  here  has  been  a  troop  of  children,  of  three 
families,  nine  that  may  be  called  children,  (without 
offense  to  any  sweet  fifteen,)  that  have  had  the  summer 
before  them  to  disport  themselves  as  they  chose.  There 
are  no  ugly  boys  to  be  watched,  no  dangerous  places  to 
fall  from,  no  bulls  or  wicked  hippogriffs  to  chase  them. 
They  are  up  and  fledged  by  breakfast,  and  then  they 
are  off  in  uncircumscribed  liberty  till  dinner.  They 
may  go  to  the  barn,  or  to  either  of  three  orchards,  or  to 
either  of  two  woods,  or  to  either  of  two  springs,  or  to 
grandma's,  who  is  the  very  genius  of  comfort  and  gin- 
gerbread to  children!  They  can  build  all  manner  of 
structures  in  wet  sand,  or  paddle  in  the  water,  and  even 
get  their  feet  wet,  their  clothes  dirty,  or  their  pantaloons 
torn,  without  being  aught  reckoned  against  them.  They 
scuffle  along  the  road  to  make  a  dust  in  the  world,  they 
chase  the  hens,  hunt  sly  nests,  build  fires  on  the  rocks 
in  the  pastures,  and  fire  off  Chinese  crackers,  until  they 
are  surfeited  with  noise ;  they  can  run,  wade,  halloo, 
stub  their  toes,  lie  down,  climb*  tumble  down,  with  or 
without  hurting  themselves,  just  as  much  as  they  please. 
They  may  climb  in  and  out  of  wagons,  sail  chips  in  the 
water-trough  at  the  barn,  fire  apples  from  the  sharpened 
end  of  a  limber  stick,  pick  up  baskets  full  of  brilliant 
apples  in  competition  with  the  hired  men,  proud  of 
being  "almost  men."    Their  hands,  thank  fortune,  are 


MID-OCTOBER  DAYS 


335 


never  clean,  their  faces  are  tanned,  their  hair  is  tangled 
within  five  minutes  after  combing,  and  a  button  is 
always  off  somewhere. 

The  dog  is  a  creation  especially  made  for  children. 
Our  Noble  has  been  at  least  equal  to  one  hand  and  one 
foot  extra  for  frolic  and  mischief,  to  each  of  the  urchins. 
But  grandest  of  all  joy.  highest  in  the  scale  of  rapture, 
the  last  thing  talked  of  before  sleep,  and  the  first  thing 
remembered  in  the  morning,  is  the  going  out  a-nutting. 
O !  the  hunting  of  little  baskets,  the  irrepressible  glee, 
as  bags  and  big  baskets,  into  which  little  ones  are  to 
disembogue,  come  forth!  Then  the  departure,  the 
father  or  uncle  climbing  the  tree — uO!  how  high!" — 
the  shaking  of  limbs,  the  rattle  of  hundreds  of  chest- 
nuts, which  squirrels  shall  never  see  again,  the  eager 
picking  up,  the  merry  ohs !  and  ouches !  as  nuts  come 
plump  down  on  their  bare  heads,  the  growing  heap,  the 
approaching  dinner  by  the  brook,  on  leaves  yellow  as 
gold,  and  in  sunlight  yellower  still,  the  mysterious 
baskets  to  be  opened,  the  cold  chicken,  the  bread  slices 
— ah  me !  one  would  love  to  be  twenty  boys,  or  a  boy 
twenty  times  over,  just  to  experience  the  simple,  genu- 
ine, full,  unalloyed  pleasure  of  children  going  with 
father  and  mother  to  the  woods  "  a-nutting!" 


XXX. 


A  MOIST  LETTER. 

Andover,  Mass.,  November^  1854. 

The  rain  is  doing  at  last  its  long  delayed  duty.  It 
has  for  two  days  poured  forth  abundantly,  and  still 
pours ;  sometimes  with  steady  downward  plash,  but 
with  every  gust  of  wind  that  goes  fitfully  about  the  air, 
it  dashes  against  the  windows,  as  if  it  were  determined 
to  take  refuge  within.  There  is  much  going  on  up  in 
the  clouds.  There  is  a  great  racing  and  chasing  of 
scuds,  as  if  conveying  orders  on  a  field  of  battle,  while 
the  more  distant  and  solid  masses  move  slowly  and 
solemnly.  Now  and  then,  along  the  horizon,  the  skirt 
is  lifted  for  a  moment,  and  fair  weather  looks  through 
to  assure  us  that  it  is  there,  and  will  by  and  by  come 
back  in  triumph.  Every  one  feels  that  storms  are 
specialities,  and  fair  weather  the  settled  order  of  nature. 
Clear  heavens,  transparent  air,  and  shining  suns,  are  for 
common  and  daily  use  ;  good  robust  storms,  for  variety. 
But  if  it  will  rain,  we  do  love  decision  and  earnestness 
of  purpose.  We  love  to  see  Nature  really  in  earnest, 
and  black-faced  storms  out  as  if  they  had  a  worthy 
errand.  Great  rugged  clouds,  and  the  whole  heaven 
full  of  them,  winds  that  are  wide  awake,  rain  that  comes 
as  if  it  was  not  afraid  of  exhausting  the  supply,  and 
general  commotion  of  all  sorts — these  make  one  glad. 
We  always  wish  life  and  energy  in  storms.  Anything 


A  MOIST  LETTER. 


337 


but  a  dull,  foggy  drizzle,  either  in  storms  or  men. 

But  all  this  copious  rain  comes  too  late  for  roots  and 
flowers.  They  are  dead,  or  sleeping  past  all  autumn 
waking.  The  frost,  like  a  fierce  sheriff,  has  been  in 
and  taken  possession  or  sealed  up  all  the  effects  of  the 
year.  The  trees  are  stripped  to  their  very  outline. 
The  grass  is  seared.  Gardens  are  utterly  put  out. 
Where  is  all  this  goodly  garniture  which  a  few  weeks 
ago  reveled  in  such  luxuriant  abundance  ?  It  is  always 
a  graveyard  business  to  me  to  walk  in  a  yard  or 
garden  just  after  the  killing  frosts  have  been  at  it. 
The  dahlias,  that  hold  up  their  heads  with  such  uncon- 
scious state,  and  that  are  so  full  of  sap  that  their  stems 
look  like  solidified  liquid,  or  juice  with  a  skin  on,  now 
hang  so  utterly  desolate,  collapsed,  decaying,  even  slimy 
and  filthy ! 

We  come  to  see  the  changes  of  trees  with  composure. 
We  know  that  life  is  in  them  yet.  Their  leaves  change 
gradually.  They  thin  out  and  blow  away,  and  frosts, 
when  they  come,  have  but  the  gleanings.  And  all 
ligneous  plants  die  clean.  It  is  different  with  herba- 
ceous plants.  In  one  night,  by  one  stroke,  gorgeous 
flower,  plump  leaf,  hearty  stem,  are  turned  black,  and 
hang  down  with  funereal  gloom. 

We  feel  the  irremediable  destruction  of  flowers  more 
than  we  do  the  stripping  of  trees  and  shrubs,  because 
these  appeal  more  than  they  to  our  protection  and  to 
our  fondness.  i 

We  look  up  to  trees  as  superiors,  in  whom  reside 
guardianship  and  protection.  They  teach  us  patience, 
15 


333 


A  MOIST  LETTER. 


endurance,  and  unwearied  hope.  We  see  them  beaten 
bare  by  autumn-storms,  and  perfectly  content  to  stand 
bare.  The  moment  the  winter  relents,  they  spring 
forth  again,  and  all  summer  long  you  hear  them 
singing,  but  never  do  you  hear  a  tree  rehearse  its 
wrongs.  It  forgets  the  past.  It  lives  outwardly  so 
long  as  it  can,  and  then  retreats  within  itself,  patient  to 
wait  for  better  times.  And  we  feel  also,  in  the  case  of 
trees,  something  of  the  veneration  which  antiquity  al- 
ways inspires.  They  are  old  chronologers.  They  are 
older  than  the  oldest  living  men.  That  old  oak  was  an 
old  oak  when  that  crippled  old  man  yonder  was  a  little 
boy,  and  it  was  an  old  tree  in  the  days  of  his  fathers. 
These  faces  that  grimly  hang  upon  our  walls — the  por- 
traits of  shadowy  ancestors  that  long  since  have  ceased 
to  make  a  noise  in  the  world — these  very  old  faces,  in 
generations  gone  by,  used  to  look  up  into  these  fresh 
and  hearty  trees  that  carry  themselves  so  youthfully, 
and  marvel  how  high  they  were,  and  wonder  that  little 
birds  were  not  afraid  of  falling  down  off  from  their 
perilously  high  branches.  The  annual  changes  of  trees 
are  therefore  devoid  of  the  sense  of  death.  Leaves  die. 
We  pity  them.  But  trees  do  not  die.  They  undress. 
They  sleep  in  naked  majesty.  What  time  they  will, 
when  the  south  wind  blows  its  horn  among  the  hills, 
they  rouse  themselves  and  put  on  again  their  robes  and 
go  forth  as  at  other  times. 

It  is  not  so  with  flowers.  They  are  like  little  infant 
children.  They  look  up  to  us  for  protection.  They 
have  no  li^e  that  lasts.    When  they  are  stricken  they 


A  MOIST  LETTER. 


339 


make  no  resistance.  They  utterly  die.  And  it  is  a 
real  pain  that  we  do  not  choose  to  encounter,  to  go  out 
after  the  final  frost-stroke,  and  see  all  the  plants  which 
we  have  nursed  and  fondled,  not  gone,  but  lying  there 
in  colors  so  disgraceful  to  their  former  beauty.  All 
these  fine-edged  leaves,  these  delicate  lineations,  these 
exquisite  hues  and  shades  of  color,  these  matchless 
forms  and  symmetries,  whatever  is  superlative  in  fine- 
ness, delicacy,  variety,  profusion,  gorgeous  richness, 
now  lying  a  heap  of  un distinguishable  decay  and 
loathsomeness.  The  dank  smell  of  decomposing  vege- 
tation drives  you  from  your  garden  as  from  a  grave- 
yard. The  brilliant  generous  verbenas,  the  pensile  and 
graceful  fuchsias,  the  geraniums,  the  maurandyas,  the 
tufted  ageratum,  and  the  other  scores  which  blossom  all 
the  summer  long,  from  which  you  had  gathered  hun- 
dreds of  bunches  of  flowers  to  cheer  your  parlor,  to 
inspire  your  pen  while  writing,  to  furnish  you  silent 
loving  company  as  you  walked  about  among  frigid  men 
or  barren  things,  they  have  all  gone  to  corruption  before 
your  eyes. 

As  I  looked  out  of  the  window  this  morning,  I  could 
not  help  thinking  how  sweet  this  rain  would  have  been 
if  the  flowers  could  only  have  contrived  to  live  until  - 
now.  It  will  clear  up,  and  warm  suns  will  shine.  We 
shall  have  a  week  of  shadowy  summer  weather,  but 
without  leaves  or  flowers.  I  always  think  of  these 
summer  days  that  are  wont  to  come  in  November,  as  if 
they  were  sent  back  to  see  if  they  could  do  anything 
for  the  poor  flowers  which  they  had  left  in  their  re 


340 


A  MOIST  LETTER. 


treat.  They  come  as  birds  do,  singing  and  chirping 
after  some  one  of  their  young  that  may  have  been  left 
in  the  tree  behind  when  the  other  young  flew  away 
with  the  old  ones. 

All  summer  long  the  rain  has  been  frugal.  It  has 
carried  economy  to  stinginess.  Now  it  has  begun  to 
exhibit  generosity.  It  is  full  time.  It  would  be  a  dis- 
astrous year  if,  after  such  summer  drought,  the  winter 
should,  come  on  with  springs  feeble,  rivers  shallow, 
ponds  half  full,  wells  almost  dry,  and  a  general  stint  of 
water.  But,  thanks  to  a  benignant  Providence,  we 
shall  now  have  water  enough.  The  shrunk  veins  of 
the  earth  will  fill  out  again.  Cranberry  swamps  will 
have  their  much-needed  liquid  coverlet.  Boys  shall 
have  skating,  and  cattle  shall  have  drink ! 

Eain  away,  then,  full-breasted  clouds!  Drench  the 
forests,  make  new  channels  down  the  hill-sides,  fill  up 
the  ditches,  drive  out  the  margins  of  the  ponds,  and 
make  the  well  meet  the  bucket  half-way  down,  not  half 
the  coil  run  out !  We  wipe  off  the  mud  from  our  shoes 
with  great  satisfaction.  We  hear  the  gurgling  moisture 
oozing  out  about  our  shoes  at  every  step  we  tread  upon 
the  saturated  sod  without  a  sense  of  annovance,  and  we 
•  look  up  at  the  surliest  clouds  and  say,  You  are  hand- 
some, and  quite  welcome ! 

I  had  almost  forgotten  an  experience  which  must  not 
be  forgotten — a  midnight  ride.  Traveling  by  night,  in 
boat  or  car,  is  so  common  as  to  fall  among  the  ordinary 
experiences.  Not  so  a  buggy-ride.  We  lectured  at 
Lynn  on  Saturday  evening.    It  was  our  wish  to  spend 


A  M0I3T  LETTER. 


341 


the  Sabbath  at  Andover.  Now  Andover  and  Lynn  are 
about  twenty  miles  apart,  and  unfrequented  miles ;  for 
I  could  find  no  one  who  exactly  knew  the  way  from 
one  to  the  other.  The  stable-keeper  was  doubtful ;  he 
did  not  know  the  route,  none  of  his  men  knew  it,  the 
night  was  very  dark,  it  was  raining  in  torrents.  But 
go  I  must  and  would.  Those  who  had  faith  in  the 
almanac  said  the  moon  would  rise  at  ten  o'clock.  I 
agreed  to  wait  till  then.  The  lecture  was  given,  and  I 
must  say,  to  the  praise  of  old  Lynn,  to  the  bravest 
audience  of  about  a  thousand  that  I  ever  saw  gathered, 
in  spite  of  such  a  remorseless  rain.  We  returned  to 
our  friend  Shackford's,  to  wait  for  the  moon,  and 
whiled  away  the  time  in  discourse  of  pears,  illustrated 
by  some  most  juicy  specimens.  The  moon  came,  and 
the  driver  with  it,  and  his  light-covered  buggy.  Packed 
up  with  robe,  coat,  and  shawl,  we  pushed  out  into 
darkness.  The  rain  rattled  and  sung  on  the  back  and 
top  of  the  cover,  the  roads  ran  streams  of  water,  the 
horse  splashed  merrily  along,  lights  gleamed  out  of 
dwellings,  flashed  across  the  path,  sunk  behind,  and 
went  out  to  us.  First  came  Danvers,  a  town  fast 
asleep,  silent,  motionless.  We  passed  through  like 
shadows  in  a  dream.  We  took  a  wrong .  road ;  it  grew 
rough  and  cart-like,  full  of  thumping  stones ;  soon  the 
wheels  rolled  smotheringly  in  grass,  then  bushes  began 
to  whip  the  spokes,  and  finally  we  brought  up  against 
a  stone  wall — full  in  the  pastures!  Back  we  went, 
roused  up  the  good  sleeping  woman  of  the  first  house, 
inquired  the  way,  were  in  doubt  after  leaving  her  about 


342 


A  MOIST  LETTER. 


the  direction  which  she  had  given,  whether  it  was  left- 
hand  or  right  hand,  that  we  were  to  turn  at  a  given 
corner.  We  solved  it  by  waking  up  another  sleeper. 
At  length  we  got  safely  on  to  a  smooth  road  to  Mid- 
dleton.  Then  we  began  to  doze  without  knowing  it. 
Trees,  which  in  the  clouded  light  of  the  moon  had  a 
spectral  look,  faded  out  entirely.  We  were  aroused  by 
the  driver,  prying  into  the  directions  of  a  guide-board, 
where  the  road  forked.  I  got  out  on  the  wheel  and 
gazed  piercingly.  "Danvers — Point."  "No,"  said  he, 
"Dan vers  Plains."  " Tariffville,"  said  I.  "No,  Tap- 
pleyville,"  said  he.  That  is  not  the  road ;  the  other 
was,  and  we  took  it.  Again  at  the  next  guide-post  we 
stopped.  The  driver  climbed  up  and  got  hold  of  the 
board,  and  drawing  himself  up  to  his  chin,  read  its 
direction.  We  met  a  solitary  man  walking  between 
twelve  and  one  at  night.  It  seemed  very  strange  to 
see  anything  human  moving  in  the  darkness  and  soli- 
tude of  midnight.  We  hailed  him,  and  inquired  the 
way.  Then  we  speculated  what  errand  took  him  out. 
Not  a  thief,  surely.  Perhaps  he  has  been  for  a  doctor, 
said  the  driver ;  or  to  watch  with  some  sick  neighbor, 
said  I;  or,  maybe,  a-courting,  said  the  driver.  But, 
said  I,  he  was  a  middle-aged  man,  and  not  a  young, 
spruce  lover.  No  matter,  says  the  driver,  it's  about  one 
thing  with  old  or  young  when  they  go  a-courting. 

Another  dreamy,  voiceless  town  !  Our  wheels  echoed 
from  the  sides  of  the  houses.  We  came  to  a  little 
cluster  of  dwellings,  in  the  front  door  of  one  of  which 
stood  a  man,  as  quietly  as  if  it  were  noonday,  and  he 


k  MOIST  LETTER. 


waiting  for  a  friend.  "We  exacted  further  information. 
Finally,  by  dint  of  guide-boards  and  chance  stragglers, 
and  waking  up  people  in  their  houses,  at  two  o'clock 
we  reached  Andover.  A  venerable  father  and  mother, 
two  sisters,  three  brothers,  and  uncounted  children — - 
was  it  not  worth  such  a  ride  to  spend  a  Sabbath  with 
them? 
15* 


XXXL 


FROST  IN  THE  WINDOW. 

Bof>KS  have  been  written  of  painted  windows,  and 
journeys  long  and  expensive  have  been  made  to  see 
them.  And  without  a  doubt  they  are  both  curious  and 
more  than  curious;  they  are  admirable.  One  such 
work  of  art,  standing  through  generations  of  men,  and 
making  countless  hearts  glad  with  its  beauty,  is  a 
treasure  for  which  any  community  may  be  grateful. 

But  are  we  so  destitute  of  decorated  windows  as,  at 
first,  one  might  suppose  ?  Last  night  the  thermometer 
sank  nearly  to  zero,  and  see  what  business  Nature  has 
had  on  hand  I  Every  pane  of  glass  is  etched  and 
figured  as  never  Moorish  artist  decorated  Alhambra. 
Will  you  pass  it  unexamined,  simply  because  it  cost 
you  nothing — because  it  is  so  common — because  it  is, 
this  morning,  the  property  of  so  many  people — - 
because  it  was  wrought  by  Nature  and  not  by  man? 
Do  not  do  so.  Learn  rather  to  enjoy  it  for  its  own 
elegance,  and  for  God's  sake,  who  gave  to  frosts  such 
wondrous  artist  tendencies. 

The  children  are  wiser  than  their  elders.  They  are 
already  at  the  window  interpreting  these  mysterious 
pictures.  One  has  discovered  a  silent,  solitary  lake, 
extremely  beautiful,  among  stately  white  cliffs-.  An- 
other points  out  a  forest  of  white  fir  trees  and  pines, 
growing  in  rugged  grandeur.    There  are  in  succession 


FROST  IN  THE  WINDOW. 


315 


discovered  mountains,  valleys,  cities  of  glorious  struc- 
tures, a  little  confused  in  their  outline  by  distance. 
There  are  various  beasts  too; — here  a  bear  coming 
down  to  the  water;  birds  in  flocks,  or  sitting  voice- 
less and  solitary.  There  are  rivers  flowing  through 
plains ;  and  elephants,  and  buffaloes,  and  herds  of  cattle. 
There  are  dogs  and  serpents,  trees  and  horses,  ships  and 
men.  Beside  all  these  phantom  creatures,  there  are 
shadowy  ornaments  of  every  degree  of  beauty,  simple 
or  complex,  running  through  the  wrhole  scale,  from  a 
mere  dash  of  the  artist's  tool  to  the  most  studied  and 
elaborate  compositions. 

Neither  does  Night  repeat  itself.  Every  window  has 
its  separate  design.  Every  pane  of  glass  is  individual 
and  peculiar.  You  see  only  one  appearance  of  anxiety 
in  the  artist,  and  that  is,  lest  time  and  room  should  fail 
for  the  expression  of  the  endless  imaginations  which 
throng  his  fertile  soul. 

There  is  a  generous  disregard  of  all  fictitious  or 
natural  distinctions  of  society  in  this  beautiful  working. 
The  designs  upon  the  Poor  House  windows  are  just  as 
exquisite  as  any  upon  the  rich  man's  mansion.  The 
little  child's  bed-room  window  is  just  as  carefully 
handled  as  the  proudest  window  in  any  room  of  state. 
The  church  can  boast  of  nothing  better  than  the  em- 
blazonings  on  the  window  of  the  poor  seamstress  who 
lives  just  by.  For  a  few  hours  everybody  is  rich. 
Every  man  owns  pictures  and  galleries  of  pictures ! 

But  then  comes  the  Iconoclast — the  Sun !  Ah,  re- 
morseless eyes !  why  will  you  gaze  out  all  these 
15* 


346 


FROST  IN  TSE  WINDOW. 


exquisite  figures  and  lines?  Art  thou  jealous  lest 
Night  shall  make  sweeter  flowers  in  Winter  time  than 
thou  canst  in  all  the  Summer  time?  For  shame,  en- 
vious Father  of  Flowers !  There  is  no  end  of  thy 
abundance.  Around  the  Equator  the  Summer  never 
dies ;  flowers  perfume  the  whole  Ecliptic.  And  spread- 
ing out  thence,  the  Summer  shall  travel  northward,  and 
for  full  eight  months  thou  hast  the  temperate  zones  for 
thy  gardens.  Will  not  all  the  flowers  of  the  tropics 
and  of  eight-month  zones  suffice?  Will  not  all  the 
myriads  that  hide  under  leaves,  that  climb  up  for  air  to 
tree-tops,  that  nestle  in  rock-crevices,  or  sheet  the  open 
-  plains  with  wide  effulgence,  that  ruffle  the  rocks  and 
cover  out  of  sight  all  rude  and  homely  things — suffice 
thy  heart,  that  thou  must  come  and  rob  from  our 
Winter  canvas  all  the  fine  things,  the  rootless  trees, 
the  flowers  that  blossom  without  growing,  the  wilder- 
ness of  pale  shrubberies  that  grow  by  night  to  die  by 
day?  Eapacious  Sun!  thou  shouldst  set  us  a  better 
example. 

But  the  indefatigable  Night  repairs  the  desolation. 
New  pictures  supply  the  waste  ones.  New  cathedrals 
there  are,  new  forests,  fringed  and  blossoming,  new 
sceneries,  and  new  races  of  extinct  animals.  We  are  rich 
every  morning,  and  poor  every  noon.  One  dfty  with  us 
measures  the  space  of  two  hundred  years  in  kingdoms 
— a  hundred  years  to  build  up,  and  a  hundred  years  to 
decay  and  destroy;  twelve  hours  to  overspread  the 
evanescent  pane  with  glorious  beauty,  and  twelve  to 
extract  and  dissipate  the  pictures ! 


FROST  IN  THE  WINDOW. 


347 


How  is  the  frost-picturing  like  fancy  painting!  Thus 
we  fill  the  vagrant  hours  with  innumerable  designs,  and 
paint  visions  upon  the  visionless  sphere  of  Time,  which, 
with  every  revolution,  destroys  our  work,  restoring  it 
back  to  the  realm  of  waste  fantasies ! 

But  is  not  this  a  type  of  finer  things  than  arrant  fic- 
tions ?    Is  it  not  a  mournful  vision  of  many  a  virtuous 
youth,  overlaid  with  every  device  of  virtue  which  • 
parental  care  could  lay  on,  dissolved  before  the  hot 
breath  of  love,  blurred,  and  quite  rubbed  out ! 

Or  shall  we  read  a  lesson  for  a  too  unpractical  mind, 
full  of  airy  theories  and  dainty  plans  of  exquisite  good, 
that  lie  upon  the  surface  of  the  mind,  fair  indeed,  till 
touched  ?  The  first  attempt  at  realization  is  as  when 
an  artist  tries  to  tool  these  frosted  sketches ;  the  most 
exquisite  touch  of  ripest  skill  would  mar  and  destroy 
them! 

Or,  rather,  shall  we  not  reverently  and  rejoicingly  be- 
hold in  these  morning  pictures  wrought  without  color, 
and  kissed  upon  the  window  by  the  cold  lips  of  Winter, 
another  instance  of  that  Divine  Beneficence  of  beauty, 
which  suffuses  the  heavens,  clothes  the  earth,  and 
royally  decorates  the  months,  and  sends  them  forth 
through  all  hours,  all  seasons,  all  latitudes,  to  fill  the 
earth  with  joy,  pure  as  the  Grreat  Heart  from  which  it 
had  its  birth  ? 


I 


XXXII. 

SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING. 

The  sensations  with  which  we  are  affected  by  a  fall 
of  snow  depend  much  upon  our  position  and  prospec- 
tive enterprises.  If  one  is  journeying  across  a  prairie, 
no  more  terrible  thing  can  befall  him  than  the  coming 
on  of  a  driving  snow.  All  landmarks  are  shut  in,  all 
paths  are  covered  ;  the  air  is  darkened  ;  the  wind  pierces 
the  very  heart  with  chills,  and  if  he  had  not  the  good 
luck  to  bring  with  him  a  compass,  he  will  soon  grow 
bewildered,  and  travel  about  in  useless  circuits,  till  he 
grows  numb,  slumberous,  and  dies,  with  the  storm  going 
on  above  him,  and  heaping  him  up  with  snowy  burial. 
Snow  is  worse  than  fire.  Against  fire  you  can  set  fire, 
and  escape  in  the  track  of  the  flame  which  you  yourself 
have  kindled.    You  can  not  set  snow  against  snow. 

Falling  snow  is  beautiful  in  a  forest.  It  comes  waver- 
ing down  among  the  trees,  without  a  whisper,  and  takes 
to  the  ground  without  the  sound  of  a  footfall.  Ever- 
green trees  grow  intense  in  contrasts  of  dark  green 
ruffled  with  radiant  white.  Bush  and  tree  are  powdered 
and  banked  up.  Not  the  slightest  sound  is  made 
in  all  the  work  which  fills  the  woods  with  winter  soil 
many  feet  deep.  But,  nowhere  else  is  snow  so  beautiful 
as  when  one  sojourns  in  a  good  old-fashioned  mansion 
in  the  country,  bright  and  warm,  full  of  home-joy  and 
quiet.    You  look  out  through  large  windows  and  see 


.SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING.  349 

one  of  those  flights  of  snow  in  a  still  calm  day,  that 
make  the  air  seem  as  if  it  were  full  of  white  millers,  or 
butterflies,-fluttering  down  from  heaven.  There  is  some- 
thing extremely  beautiful  in  the  motion  of  these  large 
flakes  of  snow.  They  do  not  make  haste,  nor  plump 
straight  down  with  a  dead  fall  like  a  whistling  raindrop. 
They  seem  to  be  at  leisure,  and  descend  with  that  quiet, 
wavering,  sideway  motion,  which  birds  sometimes  use 
when  about  to  alight.  You  think  that  you  are  reading ; 
and  so  you  are,  but  it  is  not  in  the  book  that  lies  open 
before  you.  The  silent,  dreamy  hour  passes  away,  and 
you  have  not  felt  it  pass.  The  trees  are  dressed  with 
snow.'  The  long  arms  of  evergreens  bend  with  its 
weight ;  the  rails  are  doubled,  and  every  post  wears  a 
virgin  crown.  The  well-sweep,  the  bucket,  the  well- 
curb  are  fleeced  over.  And  still  the  silent  quivering 
air  is  full  of  trooping  flakes,  thousands  following  to  take 
the  place  of  all  that  fall.  The  ground  is  heaped,  the 
paths  are  gone,  the  road  is  hidden,  the  fields  are  leveled, 
the  eaves  of  buildings  jut  over,  and,  as  the  day  moves 
on,  the  fences  grow  shorter  and  gradually  sink  from  sight. 
All  night  the  heavens  rain  crystal  flakes.  Yet,  that 
roof,  on  which  the  smallest  rain  pattered  audible  music, 
gives  no  sound.  There  is  no  echo  in  the  stroke  of 
snow,  until  it  waxes  to  an  avalanche  and  slips  from  the 
mountains.    Then  it  fills  the  air  like  thunderbolts. 

When  the  morning  comes,  then  comes  the  sun  also. 
The  storm  has  gone  back  to  its  northern  nests  to  shed 
its  feathers  there.  The  air  is  still,  cold,  bright.  But 
what  a  glory  rests  upon  the  too  brilliant  earth !  Are 


850 


SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING. 


these  the  January  leaves,  is  this  the  winter  efflorescence 
of  shrub  and  tree  ?  You  can  scarcely  look  for  the  ex- 
ceeding brightness.  Trees  stand  up  against  the  clear, 
gray  sky,  brown  and  white  in  contrast,  as  if  each  trunk, 
and  bough,  and  branch,  and  twig,  had  been  coated  with 
ermine,  or  with  white  moss.  There  is  an  exquisite 
airiness  and  lightness  in  the  masses  of  snow  on  trees 
and  fences  when  seen  just  as  the  storm  left  them.  The 
wind  or  sun  soon  disenchants  the  magic  scene. 

Already  snow-birds  are  fluttering  for  a  foothold,  and 
showering  down  the  frosty  dust  from  the  twigs.  The 
•  hens  and  their  uplifted  lords  are  beginning  to  wade 
with  dainty  steps  through  the  chilly  wool.  Boys  are 
aglee  with  sleds ;  men  are  out  with  shovels,  and  dames 
with  brooms.  Bells  begin  to  ring  along  the  highway, 
and  heavy  oxen  with  craunching  sleds  are  winding 
toward  the  woods  for  the  winter's  supply  of  fuel.  The 
school-house  is  open,  and  a  roasting  hot  fire  rages  in  the 
box  stove.  Little  boys  are  crying  with  chilblains,  and 
little  girls  are  comforting  them  with  the  assurance  that 
it  will  "stop  aching  pretty  soon,"  and  the  boys  seem  un- 
willing to  stop  crying  till  then.  Big  boys  are  shaking 
their  coats,  and  stamping  off  the  snow,  which  peels 
easily  from  sleek  blackballed  boots,  or  shoes  burnished 
with  tallow.  Out  of  doors  the  snow-balls  are  flying, 
and  everybody  laughs  but  the  one  that's  hit.  Down  go 
the  wrestlers.  The  big  ones  "rub"  the  little  ones;  the 
little  ones  in  turn  "rub"  the  smaller  ones.  The  passers- 
by  are  pelted ;  and  many  a  lazy  horse  has  motives  of 
speed  applied  to  his  lank  barrel.    Even  the  school- 


SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING.  351 

master  is  but  mortal,  and  must  take  his  lot;  for  many 
an  11  accidental"  snow-ball  plumps  into  his  breast  and 
upon  his  back  before  the  rogues  will  believe  that  it 
is  the  schoolmaster! 

But  days  go  by.  The  snow  drifts.  Fences  are 
banked  up  ten  feet  high.  Hills  are  broken  into  a 
"coast"  for  boys'  sleds.  They  slide  and  pull  up  again, 
and  toil  on  in  their  slippery  pleasure.  They  tumble 
over,  and  turn  over;  they  break  down,  or  smash  up; 
they  run  into  each  other,  or  run  races,  in  all  the  moods 
and  experiences  of  rugged  frolic.  Then  comes  the 
digging  of  chambers  in  the  deep  drifts,  room  upon 
room,  the  water  dashed  on  over  night  freezing  the 
snow  walls  into  solid  ice.  Forts  also  are  built,  and 
huge  balls  of  snow  rolled  up,  till  the  little  hands  can 
roll  the  mass  no  longer. 

But  do  not  think  that  the  steady  fall  of  snow  brought 
any  such  pleasing  visions  to  our  mind.  It  suggested 
rather  visions  of  blocked  up  railways,  disarranged 
trains,  discontented  passengers,  appointments  missed  ; — 
for  we  were  to  start  the  next  day  for  Utica  and  Water- 
town  upon  a  lecturing  tour. 

Our  trip  thither  was  not  impeded ;  but,  as  the  storm 
continued,  we  were  sadly  delayed  in  returning,  and 
obliged  to  spend  a  Sabbath  at  Albany.  To  have  a 
sudden  and  unexpected  day  of  absolute  rest  and  unre- 
sponsibility  intercalated  in  the  week  was  a  strange  and 
blessed  luxury. 

A  Ride  behind  the  Snow-Plow. — Among  the 


352  SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING. 

things  which  I  have  always  longed  to  see,  is  the 
snow-plow,  driven  along  the  covered  track,  and 
through  heaped  and  drifted  snows.  This  I  have 
at  length  seen.  The  train  came  to  Watertown  from 
Cape  Vincent,  New  York,  with  two  engines  and  a 
snow-plow.  When  we  reached  Pierpont  Manor,  the 
conductor  kindly  acceded  to  my  wish  to  go  forward  and 
take  a  berth  with  the  engineer.  I  was  soon  in  position. 
For  two  days  it  had  been  storming.  The  air  was 
murky  and  cross.  The  snow  was  descending,  not 
peacefully  and  dreamily,  but  wrhirled  and  made  wild 
by  fierce  winds.  The  forests  were  laden  with  snow, 
and  their  interior  looked  murky  and  dreadful  as  a 
witch's  den.  Through  such  scenes  I  began  my  ride 
upon  the  plow-shoving  engine.  The  engineers  and 
firemen  were  coated  with  snow  from  head  to  foot,  and 
looked  like  millers  who  had  never  brushed  their  coats 
for  ten  years.  The  floor  on  which  we  stood  was  ice 
and  snow  half  melted.  The  wood  was  coated  with 
snow.  The  locomotive  was  frosted  all  over  with  snow 
— wheels,  connecting-rods,  axles,  and  everything  but 
the  boiler  and  smoke-stack.  The  side  and  front  win- 
dows were  glazed  with  crusts  of  ice,  and  only  through 
one  little  spot  in  the  window  over  the  boiler  could  I 
peer  out  to  get  a  sight  of  the  plow.  The  track  wras  in- 
distinguishable. There  was  nothing  to  the  eye  to  guide 
the  engine  in  one  way  more  than  another.  It  seemed 
as  if  we  were  going  across  fields  and  plunging  through 
forests  at  random.  And  this  gave  no  mean  excite- 
ment to  the  scene,  when  two  ponderous  engines  were 


SNOWSTORM  TRAVELING, 


353 


apparently  driving  us  in  such  an  outlandish  excur- 
sion. But  their  feet  were  sure,  and  unerringly  felt 
their  way  along  the  iron  road,  so  that  we  were  held  in 
our  courses. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  beauty  of  snow  in  its  own 
organization,  in  the  gracefulness  with  which  it  falls,  in 
the  molding  of  its  drift-lines,  and  in  the  curves  which 
it  makes  when  streaming  off  on  either  side  from  the 
plow.  It  was  never  long  the  same.  If  the  snow  was 
thin  and  light,  the  plow  seemed  to  play  tenderly  with 
it,  like  an  artist  doing  curious  things  for  sport,  throwing 
it  in  exquisite  curves  that  rose  and  fell,  quivered  and 
trembled  as  they  ran.  Then  suddenly  striking  a  rift 
that  had  piled  across  the  track,  the  snow  sprang  out,  as 
if  driven  by  an  explosion,  twenty  and  thirty  feet,  in 
jets  and  bolts ;  or  like  long-stemmed  sheaves  of  snow — 
i  outspread  fan-like.  Instantly,  when  the  drift  was  past, 
the  snow  seemed  by  an  instinct  of  its  own  to  retract, 
and  played  again  in  exquisite  curves,  that  rose  and  fell 
about  our  prow.  "Now  you'll  get  it,"  says  the  en- 
gineer, "in  that  deep  cut."  We  only  saw  the  first  dash, 
as  if  the  plow  had  struck  the  banks  of  snow  before  it 
could  put  on  its  graces,  and  shot  it  distracted  and  head- 
long up  and  down  on  either  side,  like  spray  or  flying 
ashes.  It  was  t^it  a  second.  For  the  fine  snow  rose  up 
around  the  engine,  and  covered  it  in  like  a  mist,  and 
sucking  round,  poured  in  upon  us  in  sheets  and  clouds, 
mingled  with  the  vapor  of  steam,  and  the  smoke 
which,  from  impeded  draft,  poured  out,  filled  the 
engine-room  and  darkened  it  so  that  we  could  not  see 


854 


SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING. 


each  other  a  foot  distant  except  as  very  filmy  specters 
glowering  at  each  other.  Our  engineers  had  on  buffalo 
coats,  whose  natural  hirsuteness  was  made  more  shaggy 
by  tags  of  snow  melted  into  icicles.  To  see  such  sub- 
stantial forms  changing  back  and  forth  every  few 
moments  from  a  clearly  earthly  form  into  a  spectral 
lightness,  as  if  they  went  back  and  forth  between  body 
and  spirit,  was  not  a  little  exciting  to  the  imagination. 

When  we  struck  deep  bodies  of  snow,  the  engine 
plowed  through  them  laboriously,  quivering  and  groan- 
ing with  the  load,  but  shot  forth  again  nimble  as  a  bird 
the  moment  the  snow  grew  light  and  thin. 

Nothing  seemed  wilder  than  to  be  in  one  of  these 
whirling  storms  of  smoke,  vapor  and  snow,  you  on 
one  ponderous  monster,  and  another  roaring  close  be- 
hind, both  engines  like  fiery  dragons  harnessed  and 
fastened  together  and  looming  up  when  the  snow  and  * 
mists  opened  a  little,  black  and  terrible.  It  seemed  as 
if  you  were  in  a  battle.  There  was  such  energetic 
action,  such  irresistible  power,  such  darkness  and  light 
alternating,  and  such  fitful  half-lights,  which  are  more 
exciting  to  the  imagination  than  light  or  darkness. 
Thus,  whirled  on  in  the  tosom  of  a  storm,  you  sped 
across  the  open  fields,  full  of  wild,  driving  snow ;  you 
ran  up  to  the  opening  of  the  black  pi#e  and  hemlock 
woods,  and  plunged  into  their  somber  mouth  as  if  into  a 
cave  of  darkness,  and  wrestled  your  way  along  through 
their  dreary  recesses,  emerging  to  the  cleared  field 
again,  with  whistles  screaming  and  answering  each 
other  back  and  forth  from  engine  to  engine.    For,  in 


SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING.  %  855 

the  bewildering  obscurity,  we  have  run  past  the  station^ 
and  must  choke  down  the  excited  steeds  and  rein  them 
back  to  the  depot. 

We  think  that  Mazeppa's  ride,  lashed  to  a  wild 
horse,  and  rushing  through  the  forests  wolf-driven,  was 
rather  exciting.  If  a  man  in  a  buffalo  hunt,  by  some 
strange  mishap,  should  find  himself  thrown  from  his 
horse  and  mounted  on  the  shaggy  back  of  an  old,  fierce 
buffalo  bull,  and  go  off  with  a  rush,  in  cloud  and  dust, 
among  ten  thousand  tramping  fellows,  pursued  by  yell- 
ing Indians — that,  too,  would  be  an  exciting  ride.  But 
neither  of  these  would  know  the  highest  exhilaration 
of  the  chase,  until  in  a  wild  storm,  upon  a  scowling 
day  in  January,  he  rides  upon  a  double  engine  team 
behind  a  snow-plow,  to  clear  the  track  of  banks  and 
burdens  of  snow. 

Waiting  for  the  Cars. — At  about  twelve  of 
the  day  we  reached  Eome.  All  the  trains  on  the 
Central  Eoad  were  behind  time,  but  they  were  just 
about  to  arrive,  and  they  were  just  a-going  to  arrive 
for  five  hours.  The  room  in  the  station-house  was 
soon  filled.  Ladies  there  were,  but  in  no  proportion 
to  the  gentlemen.  They  were  more  patient,  at  least, 
outwardly;  staying  in  the  house  was  more  natural 
to  them.  But  the  men  were  full  of  calculations- 
how  long  before  the  train  must  arrive?  and  how 
long  now?  When  would  it  reach  Syracuse  going 
east,  and  when  Buffalo  going  west?  What  were 
the  chances  of  reaching  New  York  ?    Every  one  took 


356  .SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING. 

his  turn  in  the  calculation,  and  reckoned  the  matter 
over  and  over,  and  consulted  with  each  new  comer,  as 
if  some  effect  would  be  produced  upon  the  tardy 
trains.  There  w&re  seats  in  the  gentlemen's  room 
for  eight,  and  there  were  from  thirty  to  fifty  persons 
present.  Some  heaped  up  the  indolent  mail-bags 
and  sat  on  them.  A  roll  of  buffalo  robes  behind  the 
door  was  a  special  luxury.  Some  mounted  on  trunks 
that  had  accumulated  in  one  corner.  Apparently  they 
were  not  soft,  as  they  seemed  willing  to  exchange  for 
the  buffalo  robe  whenever  it  was  vacated.  Others  stood 
about  the  outrageously  hot  stove.  Everybody  seemed 
to  be  seized  with  a  desire  to  put  in  a  stick,  and  when 
it  could  hold  no  more,  they  would  occasionally  open  the 
door,  look  in,  poke  and  kick  with  their  feet  to  crowd 
the  wood  closer,  and  so  it  roared  red-hot  and  terrible 
as  a  red  dragon.  But  stout,  full-blooded  men  sat  about 
it  with  great-coats  and  mufflers  on,  drinking  in  heat  as 
if  they  had  a  salamander  enjoyment  of  it.  The  only 
relief  was  in  the  frequent  opening  of  the  door  to  let  in 
new-comers.  They  came  pushing  in  with  red  faces  and 
white  coats,  powdered  with  snow  like  a  confectioner's 
cake.  The  first  business  of  every  one,  on  entering,  was 
to  ask  after  the  train,  to  which  some  gave  quizzical 
answers,  some  peevish  and  querulous  answers,  some 
downright  truth ;  a  few  were  always  hopeful,  and  not  a 
few  sat  silent  and  even  sullen. 

The  next  resource  of  every  one  seemed  to  be  in  an 
attack  upon  the  pop-corn  and  apple  baskets.  It  was  a 
great  day  for  the  apple-boys.   When  the  sale  seemed  to 


4 


SNOW-STOEM  TRAVELING. 


357 


flag,  they  would  fill  up  with  fresh  specimens,  and  one 
of  them  would  come  rushing  in  from  the  telegraph 
office—"  Train  only  got  to  Little  Falls."  "  Little  Falls !" 
exclaim  a  score  of  westward-going  passengers,  "  it  won't 
be  here  for  an  nour."  At  that  they  turned  discon 
solately  to  the  apples  again.  By  and  by,  in  plumps 
another  boy.  "Express  train  only  just  reached  Syra- 
cuse ;  just  come  from  telegraph."  This  was  a  clap  upon 
us  eastward-going  passengers — going,  but  not  gone; 
and  we  sighed,  and  remarked,  and  comforted  ourselves 
with — apples! 

Men  gathered  into  groups  and  talked,  at  first  of  pro- 
duce, then  of  politics ;  next  they  told  stories  as  long  as 
their  memory  held  out ;  and  then  each  would  saunter  up 
and  down  the  room,  with  hands  in  his  pockets,  or  behind 
his  back.  Newspapers,  of  which  a  few  were  present,  were 
read  through — advertisements  and  all.  One  great  com- 
fort was  found  in  going  to  the  ticket-office  window  and 
peering  in — for  questions  were  out  of  the  question — the 
ticket-master  lying  in  a  corner  snoozing.  At  length  he 
got  up  and  shut  his  window.  This  was  a  great  misfortune. 
Men  now  would  walk  up  and  look  very  solemnly  at  it, 
as  if  to  be  sure  that  it  was  shut,  and  then  they  would  go 
disconsolately  to  the  door  or  window  as  if  determined  to 
look  out  of  something.  At  last,  some  one  pulled  a  sliver 
from  the  wood  and  began  to  whittle.  In  a  few  momenta 
another  followed  suit,  and  before  long  half  a  dozen  were 
contentedly  whittling.  I  envied  them.  At  last  they 
seemed  consoled.  I  envied  that  fat  man  in  the  corner, 
who  sat  without  winking,  certainly  without  a  single 


358 


SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING-. 


motion  that  I  could  notice,  for  a  full  hour.  He 
seemed  entirely  occupied  in  breathing.  I  envied  that 
old  farmer  that  fell  asleep  sitting  bolt  upright,  but 
gradually, .  like  an  apple  roasting  before  a  good  old- 
fashioned  fire,  slept  himself  down  to  a  heap.  I  envied 
the  imperturbable  content  of  that  plump  country-girl 
who  stood  before  the  glass  combing  her  hair  with  a 
fine-toothed  comb,  and  dividing,  and  smoothing,  and 
placing  it  as  if  she  were  in  a  summer  afternoon  chamber 
all  alone,  fixing  for  a  visit  from  her  ''intended."  The 
boys  were  the  only  utterly  cheerful  and  happy  set. 
Their  sales  over,  they  amused  themselves  with  all 
manner  of  boyish  tricks,  giving  each  other  a  sly  nip, 
or  e  choking  pull  at  each  other's  tippet,  knocking 
off  each  other's  caps,  or  crushing  them  down  over  the 
eyes,  snapping  apple-seeds,  or  throwing  cores,  and 
performing  besides  these  all  manner  of  monkey-tricks 
such  as  boys  only  and  boys  always  know. 

We  read  all  the  show-bills,  all  railroad  placards,  all 
the  time-tables,  all  the  advertisements,  and  studied  all 
the  veracious  railroad  maps,  on  which  rams-horn  rail- 
roads were  made  to  flow  on  in  straight  lines  or  very 
gradual  curves,  while  competing  roads  were  laid  down 
in  all  their  vicious  sinuosities. 

When  I  say  that  the  boys  were  the  only  happy  ones, 
I  must  except  the  happy  old  lady  in  the  corner  with 
her  knitting.  She  has  two  younger  women  by  her,  and 
the  three  are  talking  and  working  just  as  placidly  and 
contentedly  as  if  in  the  great  kitchen  at  home.  Ah ! 
blessed  be  knitting!    Who  ever  saw  a  person  other 


SNOW-STORM  TRAVELING. 


359 


than  quiet  and  peaceful  that  knits?  If  anger  breaks 
out,  the  knitting  is  laid  aside.  When  the  needles 
begin  again,  you  may  be  sure  that  it  is  all  right  within. 

At  length  the  five  hours  were  accomplished ;  the 
train  came  thundering  up  with  a  double  team  of  en- 
gines. The  crowd  poured  forth  eagerly,  and  in  a  few 
moments  we  were  dashing  off  toward  Albany,  which 
we  reached  at  ten  o'clock  Saturday  evening ;  too  late 
for  any  train  to  New  York  that  night. 


LATE  PAPERS. 

*  .» 


I. 

*  A  BOY  AGAIN! 

January,  1870. 

Would  you  like  to  be  a  boy  again  ? 

It  i&  a  nice  question.  It  cannot  be  settled  by  any 
rough  estimate.  Certain  it  is,  that,  as  we  look  back 
upon  it,  our  boyhood  seems  like  a  dream-land.  But  the 
things  which  seem  romantic  now  did  not  seem  so  then, 
and  tears  accompanied  experiences  which  now  excite 
smiles.  To  have  a  boy's  early  life  upon  a  grown-up 
man's  experience  as  a  background  would  be  very  fine. 
And  that  it  is  which  we  get  in  retrospect.  0  for  a  boy's 
appetite  !  We  needed  no  morning  bell.  Hunger  used 
to  awaken  us  betimes.  We  plunged  into  our  clothes, 
dressing  in  about  the  time  that  a  bird  requires  (that 
sleeps  in  its  clothes,  and  does  not  even  take  them  off  for 
washing),  and  darted  down  stairs  for  the  kitchen,  where 
stood  Eachel,  black  as  night,  with  a  loaf  of  bread  white 
as  milk ;  no  new  biscuit,  but  a  long,  wide,  thick  loaf, 
bulging  open  at  one  end,  delicately  brown  at  both  ends 
and  all  the  way  between.    With  a  graceful  sweep  she 

16 


362  A  BOY  AGAIN. 

cut  a  slice  an  inch  thick,  smooth  as  a  line  had  measured 
it.  It  needed  neither  sauce  nor  butter.  It  was  a  mere 
morsel,  sent  before  to  hold  the  citadel  until  breakfast 
could  come  to  the  rescue !  So  it  was  every  day,  and 
during  all  our  growing  years. 

Then  there  were  the  apple-eating  exploits.  If  there 
were  not  boys  yet  alive  somewhere,  doing  the  sam&  thing, 
it  would  not  do  to  tell  the  quantity  of  apples  daily  con- 
sumed. Indeed,  it  seems  to  our  memory  that  we  were 
always  eating  apples  —  after  they  began  to  get  ripe. 
With  what  a  rush  did  we  two  youngsters  fo  to  the 
"  Early  Bough  "  tree,  to  see  what  had  fallen  during  the 
night !  Blessings  on  the  rain  that  softened  the  stem, 
and  on  the  wind  that  loves  boys,  and  plumps  down 
through  the  night  the  ripe  apples  for  them ! 

Then  the  cows  were  to  be  driven  to  pasture,  and 
the  apple-trees  on  the  road  paid  tribute.  What  did 
the  farmers  put  their  trees  along  the  fence  for,  if  they 
did  not  want  boys  to  get  the  fruit  ?  Then,  before  re- 
turning, we  had  to  look  in  the  sweet-flag  swamp,  to  see 
if  the  graters  (as  we  called  the  spadix  or  blossom-spike) 
were  ripe.  These,  too,  were  devoured.  If  a  few  berries 
came  in  our  way,  they  followed  the  apples.  A  bunch 
of  sorrel-leaves  furnished  acid.  Should  a  wild  honey- 
suckle appear  in  our  travels,  bearing  swamp-apples, — 
by  which  term  boys  designate  the  watery  and  tasteless 
swellings  on  azalea-bushes,  —  we  wrent  at  them  as  vora- 
ciously as  if  we  had  not  had  a  mouthful  to  eat  that  day. 

These  entremets  did  not  prejudice  us  against  a  slice  or 
two  of  bread  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  and  if  an 


A  BOY  AGAIN. 


363 


errand  took  us  over  to  Aunt  Bull's,  there  was  sure  to  be 
- —  0  those  doughnuts  !  By  such  timely  auxiliaries  our 
famishing  stomach  held  out  till  twelve  o'clock  dinner, 
and  again  with  like  treatment  till  supper,  and  after  that, 
if  late  in  the  season  or  in  winter,  came  a  hatful  of 
apples,  brought  up  from  the  cellar  (a  boy's  hat  is  the 
one  universal  measure,  liquid  or  solid) ;  and  without 
more  ado,  three,  four,  or  five  apples  apiece  wound  up 
the  day  and  sent  us  to  bed.  Now,  we  honestly  declare 
that,  in  all  our  boyhood,  we  do  not  remember  a  single 
day  of  indigestion,  except  on  one  or  two  "  training  days," 
when  we  ate  stuff  not  lawful  to  utter.  But,  day  after 
day  for  years,  we  ate  till  eating  could  no  further  go, 
without  a  thought  of  inconvenience,  so  well  did  the  mill 
grind  its  grist ! 

But  we  lived  in  the  "  Hill  Country  "  of  Connecticut, 
and  on  Litchfield  Hill,  where  it  almost  required  medical 
help  to  get  sick ;  and,  besides,  Nature  had  work  on  hand, 
as  she  always  has,  when  she  is  building  up  a  strong, 
healthy,  active  boy.  There  are  bones  to  be  made,  and 
muscles  to  be  lengthened  and  filled  out,  and  nerve-paste 
to  be  daintily  provided.  A  growing  boy  is  like  a  build- 
ing house,  and  food  is  like  the  bricks  and  stone  and  tim- 
ber that  the  workmen  consume,  load  after  load.  But 
when  once  the  house  and  boy  are  built,  they  only  re- 
quire enough  thereafter  for  repairs.  0  that  we  could 
invite  our  boyhood  in  to  dine  with  our  manhood !  what 
a  glorious  time  they  would  have  together  ! 

Our  boyhood  was  supremely  fortunate  in  having  al- 
most impregnable  health.  Mumps,  measles,  chicken-pox, 


364 


A  BOY  AGAIN. 


whooping-cough,  had  a  poor  time  with  us.  They  danced 
on  the  surface  of  the  blood  like  bubbles  on  a  deep  river. 

Boyhood  sleep  !  —  deep,  dark,  dreamless  annihilation  ! 
It  needed  no  coaxing,  but  began  promptly ;  never  ran 
shallow  nor  came  up  to  the  surface.  All  night  long  we 
lay,  unstirring,  unconscious,  happy  without  knowing  it, 
brother  to  the  flowers,  or  to  the  stone  on  which  flowers 
cast  their  shadows  !  If  it  rained  and  roared  on  the  roof, 
and  winds  rocked  the  old  house  and  creaked  its  joints, 
we  heard  the  story  with  incredulity  in  the  morning,  for 
nothing  of  all  this  disturbance  reached  the  sleep  which 
we  were  hidden.  Sometimes  it  was  a  marvel  and  sur- 
prise in  the  morning  to  see  what  had  gone  on  in  the 
night.  The  evenirig  was  calm  and  mild,  the  ground 
bare,  the  sky  hung  low  and  gray,  when  we  went  to  bed. 
"When  we  awoke,  the  windows  were  banked  with  snow, 
snow  was  piled  up  to  the  kitchen-roof,  snow  in  drifts 
had  shut  all  ingress  and  egress,  every  familiar  object  was 
lost  to  sight,  the  trees  had  strange  white  foliage ;  and 
all  this  change  in  a  night  that  seemed  not  an  hour  long  ! 
Who  sleep  as  boys  sleep  ?  Farmers  do.  Fishermen  do. 
Sailors  do.  Hunters  and  trappers  do.  All  men  do  who 
live  much  out  of  doors,  have  little  care,  few  luxuries,  and 
much  health.  But  how  many  lawyers,  doctors,  minis- 
ters, bankers,  and  millionnaires  would  be  glad  to  exchange 
some  fame  and  a  good  deal  of  money  for  the  sleep  of 
their  boyhood ! 

But  this  theme  spreads  out,  and  no  time  is  left  to  tell 
the  wonderful  stories  of  the  racings  and  chasings  of 
nimble-footed  boys. 


II. 


BOOKS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

February >t  1870. 

When  the  eminent  publisher  Didot,  of  Paris,  was 
about  retiring  from ,  business  in  favor  of  his  son,  he  is- 
sued an  exquisite  edition  of  "  Horace,"  with  illustrations, 
in  32mo,  as  a  farewell  card.  When  his  son  assumed  the 
business,  he  sent  out  his  card  in  the  shape  of  a  petite 
edition  of  "  Virgil,"  the  mate  of  his  father's  "  Horace," 
and  only  not  superior  to  it  because  there  can  be  nothing 
that  goes  farther  than  perfection.  This  is  a  genuine  gen- 
tleman bookseller's  proper  method  of  doing  business.  It 
is  ingenious,  artistic,  literary,  and  high-bred.  The  only 
drawback  to  the  story  is  the  fear  that  it  is  not  true.  But 
then,  is  that  circumstance  to  be  allowed  to  diminish  the 
interest  of  history  ?  The  admission  of  such  a  principle 
would  come  near  to  destroy  nine  tenths  of  all  our  libra- 
ries, the  greater  part  of  the  piquant  literary  anecdotes, 
and  the  sovereign  whole  of  newspaper  personal  infor- 
mation. But,  on  the  other  hand,  here  are  the  books 
themselves  right  before  me,  —  one  printed  in  1855 
and  the  other  in  1858,  —  each  one  looking  as  if  it 
were  bound  upon  some  errand  of  high  courtesy.  Surely 
this  is  luxury!  The  eye  feeds  on  these  things  as  no 
epicure's  tongue  ever  fed  on  a  banquet  for  the  palate. 

A  book  may  be  a  work  of  art  without  the  help  of  en- 
gravings.   The  paper,  the  type,  the  binding,  the  very 


366 


BOOKS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ink,  —  all  may  strive  together  to  create  a  work  of  art,  if 
that  is  art  which  gives  pleasure  to  a  refined  mind  through 
the  element  of  beauty. 

Alas  that  beauty  should  be  dear  in  this  world !  How 
is  it  that  Nature  makes  the  most  beautiful  things  just 
as  cheaply  as  the  homeliest  ?  Men,  on  the  other  hand, 
will  turn  you  off  useful  homeliness  at  moderate  prices, 
but  charge  for  exquisite  beauty  such  rates  as  will  forever 
keep  it  from  the  hands  of  the  multitude !  It  is  very 
plain  that  men  are  not  naturally  workmen  in  beauty ; 
They  take  to  it  awkwardly.  Not  one  in  a  thousand  who 
aim  at  the  production  of  the  beautiful  succeeds.  Nature 
hits  almost  every  time.  Man,  who  boasts  himself  the 
eldest-born  and  heir  of  Nature,  has  not  inherited  his 
mother's  skill.  What  birds  she  makes,  equipped  in 
feathers  and  tuned  in  song,  —  myriads  every  year,  — 
and  keeps  up  the  tone  of  color  and  pitch  of  music  with- 
out faltering  or  forgetting  !  What  marvelous  impres- 
sions she  makes  of  flowers  without  -marring  the  forms 
or  hurting  the  colors  !  It  is  curious  to  see  how  Nature 
works,  —  how  prodigally,  and  yet  freakishly.  Aside 
from  the  great  harvest  of  beauty,  —  the  heroic  pictures  in 
the  meadows  and  the  panoramas  of  the  sky, — she  seems 
to  have  a  love  of  nooks  and  corners,  and  dabs  in  an  effect 
in  some  out-of-the-way  place, — on  a  neglected  stump,  on 
a  stone-heap,  or  on  the  weather-side  of  a  homely  rail,  — 
that  makes  a  man's  eyes  dance  with  pleasure.  But  few 
see  these  little  love-notes  which  Nature  writes  to  Beauty. 
The  finest  things  —  the  sly  and  arch  things,  the  mystery 
of  beauty,  the  whisperings  and  glimpses  and  secrets, 


BOOKS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


367 


the  mischief  and  waggery,  of  Nature  —  men  seldom  per- 
ceive. They  imagine  Nature  to  be  always  in  a  heroic 
mood,  thinking  about  hemispheres,  oceans,  eclipses,  and 
other  notable  things.  But  Nature  is  a  gossip,  and  loves 
pets  and  fribbles,  and  sits  in  corners  with  a  lapful  of  tri- 
fles, and  laughs  at  the  useless  cares  of  statesmen  and  the 
operose  art  of  clumsy-handed  man ! 

These  remarks  seem  somewhat  foreign  to  my  subject. 
Still,  we  won't  rule  them  out,  but  hand  them  over  to 
Professor  Huntington  or  to  Artist  Page  the  next  time 
he  lectures  on  art,  while  we  go  back  to  books. 

We  are  asked,  Is  not  a  book  valuable  simply  for  the 
ideas  it  conveys  ?  and  reply,  It  is  valuable  both  for  the 
ideas  and  for  the  vehicle  in  which  they  are  conveyed. 
We  quite  scorn  the  utilitarian  view.  Or,  rather,  we 
would*  burn  at  the  stake  any  utilitarian  who  did  not 
open  up  his  definition  of  utility,  and  allow  it  to  include, 
not  simply  the  uses  of  the  senses,  and  things  valuable  to 
the  flesh,  but  the  values  of  reason,  imagination,  and  the 
most  subtile  fancy.  The  finest  gossamer  thread  that 
poetry  ever  spun  has  utility  as  really  as  the  threads 
which  the  loom  weaves  into  cloth  for  bodily  wear,  and 
in  a  far  finer  and  nobler  sense. 

There  again !  We  are  wandering  from  the  point. 
Books  are  good  for  knowledge  which  they  contain.  Cats 
are  good  for  the  mice  which  they  catch.  But  does  any 
right-minded  man  or  woman  not  love  the  family  cat,  — 
her  frolics,  her  purring,  her  sleep  by  the  chimney-corner, 
her  grave  meditations,  and  her  attempt  to  square  the 
circle  by  running  around  after  her  tail  ?    A  hen  is  good 


368 


BOOKS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


for  eggs ;  but  for  them  only  ?  Is  there  no  pleasure  in  a 
flock  of  white  hens  (the  Leghorns)  on  a  windy  day,  on  the 
lawn,  or  dodging  in  and  out  of  the  shrubbery,  their  feath- 
ers ruffled  and  rippled,  and  their  white  fan-tails  split  by 
the  wind  ?  Is  there  no  pleasure  in  watching  these  matrons 
of  the  nest  as  they  go  crooning  about  on  a  mild  summer 
day,  peering  under  every  leaf,  scratching  at  every  open 
spot,  tasting  every  choice-looking  morsel,  all  the  while 
interspersing  remarks  which,  if  one  may  judge  from  their 
grave  and  solemn  air,  can  hardly  be  anything  less  wise 
than  Solomon's  proverbs  or  Seneca's  moral  maxims  ? 
And  yet  we  do  not  despise  the  egg-producing  quality 
of  hens.  O,  what  a  prophecy  of  custards,  cakes,  creams, 
and  confections  is  a  hen's  nest ! 

Now,  then,  can  our  reader  tell  what  we  started  to  say  ? 
Ah  !  we  remember :  it  was  the  luxury  of  books,  — *-  their 
office  -of  conferring  artistic  pleasure  as  well  as  of  impart- 
ing sound  knowledge.  If  one  has  an  eye  to  discern  it, 
Nature  is  accustomed  to  tuck  away  some  element  of 
beauty  in  the  folds  of  the  most  esculent  and  kitchen- 
bound  of  all  her  plants.  Is  anything  less  artistic  than 
a  cabbage  ?  Yet  after  a  rain  the  broad  leaves  make 
saucers  of  themselves,  and  roll  big  drops  of  water  in 
them  like  silver  globes  !  A  leaf  of  the  curled  Silesia 
cabbage  might  be  used  with  advantage  for  a  pattern  in 
tracery ;  so,  too,  a  fine  head  of  lettuce.  Ah,  sitting 
here  on  this  last  night  of  January,  the  snow  thinly 
drifting  in  the  air,  how  the  vision  of  summer  and  the 
memory  of  salad  arise  upon  us !  There  is  the  long, 
white  Cos  lettuce,  the  Boston  Market,  the  Butter,  and 


BOOKS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


369 


the  Drumhead,  —  a  perplexity  to  choose  among  so  many 
kinds,  plump,  crisp,  solid.  There  is  the  spring :  pouring 
into  the  tank  is  clear,  sparkling  water,  into  which  go  the 
lettuce-heads,  with  bubbles  of  air  coming  up  from  them 
like  silver  shot !  How  tender  is  this  green,  how  exqui- 
site the  lines  and  veins  !  We  strip  off  the  outer  leaves, 
revealing  the  virgin  bosom  in  its  purity  ;  we  pile  them 
on  the  dish,  and  bear  them  to  the  table ;  and  now  wre 
hear  some  spare-belly  sharply  criticising  such  a  mani- 
fest addiction  to  the  senses  as  all  this  account  too  plainly 
shows  !  But,  stomachically,  lettuce  does  not  agree  with 
us,  and  we  seldom  eat  it.  We  have  instanced  the  fore- 
going facts  only  to  show  how  artistic,  in  its  way,  is  even 
a  salad. 

We  had  some  remarks  to  make  on  books;  but  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  defer  the  application  of  these  illus- 
trations to  another  time. 


16* 


III. 

LIVING  LANGUAGES. 

February ,  1870. 

Let  Yale  and  Harvard  have  it  their  own  way.  Ke- 
form  or  conserve,  it 's  all  the  same  to  me.  My  uni- 
versity is  all  out-doors.  My  cyclopaedia  is  issued  every 
spring,  revised  and  improved.  What  do  I  care  how  men 
speak  in  Egypt  or  in  Syria,  when  I  cannot  understand 
what  is  going  on  right  under  my  eyes  by  myriad  inhab- 
itants of  field  and  forest  ?  The  dead  languages  may  be 
all  very  well  for  Greenwood  and  Mount  Auburn;  but 
living  creatures  want  living  languages.  And  that  is  the  * 
plague  of  my  pride,  that,  when  I  go  out  into  the  fields, 
I  am  #n  utter  stranger  to  my  neighbors.  All  the  little 
grass-people,  the  shining  people  that  live  under  stones 
and  dart  away  when  I  roll  their  roof  off  from  them,  the 
people  that  live  in  trees,  or  among  leaves,  or  in  crevices 
of  the  rock,  or  in  hedges  or  holes,  or  on  webs,  —  what 
are  they  saying  to  each  other  ?  Do  they  talk  among 
themselves,  or  only  make  signs  ?  It  is  very  provoking 
to  sit  in  the  fields  among  hundreds  of  birds,  and  to  have 
every  one  of  them  afraid  of  you  and  unwilling  to  perch 
upon  your  shoulder  and  to  look  you  in  the  eye.  Man  is 
the  one  universally  dangerous  animal.  Of  all  the  wild 
brood  of  God's  creatures  in  field,  forest,  and  flood,  not 
a  thing  loves  to  keep  company  with  him.  If  there  is 
some  sort  of  universal  sentiment  among  the  lower  tribes, 


LIVING  LANGUAGES. 


371 


it  is  that  man  is  a  cruel  and  unsocial  creature.  And 
so  we  are  shut  out.  Bugs  run  away  from  us,  birds 
fly  away,  worms  crawl  away,  •  fish  swim  away.  Man 
is  the  center  of  repulsion.  What  does  he  care  ?  In 
general,  nothing. 

But  I  care  a  good  deal.  I  would  be  on  good  terms 
with  everything  in  nature.  I  would  that  I  had  sympa- 
thetic access  to  the  life  of  plants,  an  insight  into  all 
their  enginery,  a  subtile  sense  of  that  blind  pilotage  by 
which  roots  travel  and  seek  out  their  curious  roads  be- 
neath the  soil,  an  interpretation  of  that  nascent  sensibil- 
ity which  rises  in  some  plants  to  a  hint  of  nerves,  and, 
above  all,  a  knowledge  of  the  mystery  of  flowers,  —  those 
children  of  plant-love,  that  court  without  eyes,  and  make 
*  love  without  tongues  or  touch.  For  what  end  is  color  ? 
What  purpose  does  odor  serve  ?  Are  exquisite  forms,  hues, 
and  fragrance  mere  accidents  of  unconscious  vegetation, 
or  are  they  vital  secrets  of  plants,  not  to  be  learned  by 
man  ?  These  things  we  have  pondered  deeply.  We 
have  questioned  the  vines,  —  Why  do  you  twine  at  all ; 
and  why  do  you  always  twine  from  left  to  right  ?  Why 
does  your  neighbor  vine  of  another  kind  go  always 
around  from  right  to  left  ?  Is  this  a  matter  of  dispute 
among  you  ?  Do  you  divide  up  into  sects  ?  Do  you 
flaunt  your  flowers  at  one  another  as  men  do  arguments, 
and  pelt  each  other  with  bursts  of  fragrance  and  beams 
of  color  ?  What  is  going  on  underground  ?  Do  your 
roots  softly  slay  one  another  in  a  mild  suffocation  ?  Is 
there  a  prejudice  among  herbaceous  plants  against  lig- 
neous shrubs  ?    Do  wood-producing  vegetables  have  a 


372 


LIVING  LANGUAGES* 


proper  contempt  for  the  low-bred*  upstart  herbaceous 
tribes  ?  Or  do  trees  and  vines  and  shrubs  and  herbs 
all  live  kindly  together  in  a  goodly  fellowship  ?  Im- 
possible !  The  thought  cannot  be  taken  into  the 
human  mind.  Existence  without  quarreling  ?«  It  is 
absurd. 

Fortunately,  plants  cannot  run  away  when  man  ap- 
proaches. Could  our  salads,  our  strawberries,  our  rasp- 
berries, and  grapes  take  wing  and  fly  away  as  robins  do, 
when  man  approaches,  new  economies  would  have  to  be 
introduced  into  horticulture.  We  have  these  things  all 
our  own  way.  But  not  so  is  it  with  the  animated  tribes. 
They  are  in  league  offensive  and  defensive  against  man. 
They  have  been  so  long  abused  that  they  are  invincibly 
determined  to  exclude  him. 

Not  only  has  the  great  lower  family  shut  out  man 
from  its  confidence,  but  it  has  determined  to  wage  war. 
Crows  pluck  up  our  corn,  mice  nibble  our  fruit-trees, 
rats  pierce  our  granaries,  cutworms  rise  betimes  to 
decapitate  salads  and  cabbages ;  one  tribe  assails  our 
melons  and  squashes,  another  our  potatoes.  Aphides  of 
many  kinds  are  swarming,  like  Xerxes'  hosts,  over  all  the 
land ;  while  the  moth,  the  caterpillar,  the  curculio,  the 
peach-worm,  are  gnawing  and  stinging  every  precious 
fruit.  If  we  could  hear  their  side  of  the  story,  might 
they  not  say,  "  This  is  to  avenge  ages  of  cruelty  prac- 
ticed by  man  on  all  the  inferior  creatures  of  God ;  he 
has  been  a  universal  tyrant,  and  anything  that  lives  and 
can  bite  ought  to  execute  justice  upon  him  "  ?  We  all 
suffer  for  the  sins  of  our  fathers  and  of  our  neighbors, 


LIVING  LANGUAGES. 


373 


and  my  poor  garden  takes  its  share  of  the  retaliation  of 
the  Vindictive  Swarm.  If  one  only  knew  their  language 
he  might  address  terms  of  submission  and  peace  to  these 
foes,  dangerous  by  their  minuteness  and  multitude.  I 
would  say,  "  Come,  and  let  us  live  peaceably  together. 
Let  me  watch  your  economies,  and  do  you  teach  me  the 
hidden  things  that  you  know  ! " 

They  won't  trust  me  !  They  know  that  I  could  not, 
next  August,  tolerate  the  most  innocent  of  all  their  kind, 
—  house-flies.  They  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  could 
not  help  giving  a  wasp  a  spat,  if  I  found  him  in  the 
house  carrying  concealed  weapons,  in  violation  of  the 
statute  in  such  case  made  and  provided.  No,  men  are 
not  to  be  trusted. 

But  the  great  sun  nurses  us  all !  Ere  long  it  will 
bring  unnumbered  swarms  into  every  field,  and  thither 
I  will  resort,  whether  welcome  or  not.  The  spring  shall 
find  me  in  the  warm  nook  on  which  the  sunlight  pours 
all  day,  and  in  August  I  will  rest  under  the  shadow  of 
the  great  rock.  The  noise  of  the  distant  city  shall  be  to 
me  as  storms  that  rage  and  die  in  far-off  oceans,  unfelt, 
unthought  of.  I  will  not  touch  a  living  thing  to  hurt 
it.  I  will  teach  myself  to  look  forth  upon  nature  as  the 
Great  Father  does.  And  though  the  very  minute  com- 
panions of  the  field  may  not  trust  me,  I  will  endeavor 
to  keep  peace  with  every  living  thing  that  God  doth 
daily  nourish  and,  year  by  year,  renew. 

i 

Postscript.  I  except  mosquitoes !  also,  cockroaches  ; 
also,  aphides  on  my  flowers ;  also,  the  house-spiders ; 


374 


LIVING  LANGUAGES. 


and  the  rats,  of  course ;  and  other  people's  cats,  and 
vagrant  dogs  ;  and  hawks  that  come  after  my  chickens ; 
and  marmots  that  desolate  my  cabbage-patch.  In  short, 
like  most  others,  I  am  a  peace-man  except  when  I  wish 
to  fight. 


IV. 


HORTUS  SICCUS. 

March,  1870. 

Hortus  Siccus  ?  What  is  Hortus  Siccus  t  Literally, 
a  "  dry  garden."  But  is  it,  then,  a  term  descriptive  of  a 
garden  during  a  summer  drought  ?  0  no.  It  is  a  book- 
garden,  or  a  garden  put  into  a  book.  It  is  a  botanical 
term  to  represent  a  collection  of  flowers  and  plants  when 
dried,  pressed,  and  placed  in  systematic  order  in  big- 
bellied  volumes. 

To  common  eyes  a  Hortus  Siccus  has  about  the  same 
attractions  that  one  sees  in  a  haymow,  or  in  an  old  wo- 
man's collection  of  "  arbs"  —  tansy,  catnip,  boneset,  and 
pennyroyal.  But  not  so  with  a  genuine  botanist.  He 
looks  upon  these  embalmed  and  sapless  plants  with  a 
poet's  eye  and  an  artist's  enthusiasm.  He  sees  them  as 
they  were,  and  not  simply  as  they  are.  They  are  mem- 
ories of  summer  rambles.  They  are  symbols  ;  and  out  of 
them  fly  a  hundred  visions  of  grace  and  beauty.  This  is 
a  dandelion  (dent-de-lion,  or  "  lion's  tooth  "),  poor  brown 
thing  !  —  no  green  in  the  stem,  no  gold  in  the  blossom, 
all  of  it  dry,  faded ;  and  yet,  no  mother  ever  looking  on 
a  child's  little  shoe  or  battered  toy  —  a  child  gone  home ! 
—  saw  more  distinctly  the  fair  head,  the  royal  eye,  the 
golden  hair,  the  whole  noble  boy  as  he  used  to  prank 
and  play  about  the  house,  than  does  our  botanist  see 
while  looking  on  this  brittle  remnant  a  whole  meadow, 


376 


HORTUS  SICCUS. 


glittering  with  golden  dandelions  !  As  he  looks,  he  sees 
maiden  hands,  early  in  spring  days,  plucking  their  bitter 
leaves  for  "  greens."  As  he  looks  again,  he  sees  their 
cheery  faces  watching  for  the  birds,  and  telling  every 
one  that  spring  has  fully  come.  He  sees  the  summer 
field,  and  the  seed-globe,  the  fairest  thing  in  the  vege- 
table kingdom  —  as  if  all  the  seeds,  before  flying  away 
to  plant  themselves,  came  into  perfect  harmony  of  form 
and  mimicked  the  stars  by  rounding  themselves  into  an 
ethereal  sphere,  and,  having  taken  hold  of  hands  in  per- 
fection of  beauty,  said  farewell,  as  a  puff  of  wind  drove 
them  from  their  little  Jerusalem,  and  sent  them  every 
whither  to  plant  the  new  seed  of  life  ! 

Here  is  the  sweet  trailing-arbutus.  This  ?  Yes,  this. 
The  leaf-form  is  here ;  but  shall  that  flat  film,  that  stain 
of  color,  shall  that  be  called  the  blossom  ?  Yes.  To  the 
trained  eye  is  given  a  power  of  resurrection.  The  bota- 
nist brings  from  that  stain  a  perfect  flower ;  sees  it  nest- 
ling among  brown  leaves ;  hears  the  early  blackbirds,  in 
the  meadow  below,  whistling  and  cackling ;  feels  the 
cold  winds  yet  creeping  along  the  hill- side  ;  brushes 
away  from  the  covert  the  russet  leaves ;  rejoices  in  the 
necklace  of  pink  buds,  pearly  blossom-cups,  forever  emp- 
tying and  forever  full  of  fragrance  !  Kneeling  down,  he 
communes  with  them.  They  have  seen  adversity.  They 
are  children  of  winter.  When  storms  wooed  them,  they 
answered  nothing.  When  winds  raged,  they  reviled  not 
again.  All  winter  the  bud  was  waiting  for  leave  to  be 
sweet.  And  when  the  hour  came,  it  looked  up  and 
loved,  and  gave  thanks  in  fragrance.    It  inherited  the 


HORTUS  SICCUS. 


377 


snow-purity  of  winter,  the  colors  of  spring,  and  the  per- 
fume of  summer.  All  this  thinks  the  worthy  botanist 
as  he  looks  upon  the  dried  leaves  and  dead  blossom ! 
All  this  and  more.  He  follows  his  old  paths,  hangs  on 
tha  shady  and  moist  forest  hill-side  where  he  plucked 
these  ferns ;  splashes  again  along  the  marsh  where  he 
seized  this  cardinal  flower ;  and  walks  once  more  in  the 
remote  pasture-lands  where  these  fringed  gentians  grew. 
In  this  Hortus  Siccus  are  many  happy  hours.  In  mid- 
winter storms,  or  in  solitary  nights,  he  brings  back  sum- 
mer, and  lives  again  under  warm  skies,  amid  rustling 
leaves  and  singing  birds.  Blessed  are  they  whose  eyes 
see  the  invisible  ! 

But  I  have  another  sort  of  Hortus  Siccus,  and,  in  its 
way,  full  as  good  as  the  botanist's,  and  far  more  conven- 
ient.* Mine  is  not  so  cumbrous,  its  specimens  never  get 
broken,  never  crumble,  and  never  slip  out.  Indeed,  I 
have  several.  Two  of  them  I  will  share  with  you.  On 
some  ugly  February  day,  when  the  wind  is  east,  and 
every  particle  of  the  air  is  biting  some  other  particle, 
and  all  of  them  pitch  at  every  living  thing  out  of  doors, 
go  with  me  to  Thorburn's,  in  John  Street.  There  will 
not  be  a  crowd.  There  will  be  time  for  a  talk  with  our 
mild-faced  Bruggerhoff.  He  got  his  name,  I  suppose, 
out  of  a  Botany.  It  resembles  the  charming  names  given 
to  flowers.  Five  or  six  botanical  names  were  thrown  into 
a  hat,  shaken  together,  a  general  average  taken,  and 
that 's  the  result,  —  Bruggerhoff !  But  what 's  that  to 
do  with  knowledge,  and  honesty,  and  conversableness  ? 

What  is  new  this  year  ?    What  lilies  ?    What  gladi- 


378  HORTUS  SICCUS. 

« 

olus  ?  What  vines  ?  What  rare  plant  from  Japan  ? 
What  flower  has  been  monstrously  doubled  ?  How  have 
last  year's  wonders  turned  out  ?  What  are  the  London 
gardeners  bringing  out  ?  Has  Van  Hout  anything  new  ? 
What  are  the  German  and  the  Flemish  gardeners  seed- 
ing forth  this  year  ?  We  swing  round  the  globe  together. 
We  hunt  the  Brazils  for  orchids  5  we  ramble  through  the 
Indies ;  we  climb  the  Himalayas  ;  and,  without  wings 
or  feet,  go  everywhere  ;  and  in  this  dingy  store,  and  on 
this  chilly  day,  we  see  the  glory  of  the  season  in  every 
latitude.   0  what  a  blessing  eyes  are,  to  be  sure  ! 

Coming  home,  we  stop  a  moment  to  see  Allen ;  Friend 
Allen ;  Allen  who  sells  coal  for  business,  but  seeds  for 
pleasure.  Now,  then,  for  a  discourse  of  lilies  :  who  else 
in  America  has  such  an  assortment  of  various  kinds  ? 
They  are  on  their  way  hither  from  every  part  of  the 
globe,  —  old  ones,  new  ones,  cheap  or  costly,  rare  or 
common,  by  bushels,  by  barrels,  by  ton's  weight ;  and 
here,  in  this  little  coal-office,  is  the  magnet  that  draws 
them !  Then  comes  a  rambling  talk  of  clematis,  and 
we  get  angry  together  over  that  lot  of  three  hundred 
seedlings,  that  we  almost  got  hold  of  and  missed,  had 
the  promise  of,  and  which  were  sold  by  a  fool  to  a  fool 
that  did  not  know  their  value,  while  we  wise  folks,  who 
would  have  made  everything  of  them,  got  nothing  ex- 
cept the  liberty  of  imagining  what  new  forms  and  gor- 
geous colors  had  ignominiously  perished  in  the  crash 
of  that  vegetable  rainbow  !  And  so  we  go  on,  through 
a  whole  summerful  of  brave  things,  like  two  young 
mothers  talking  about  their  wonderful  babes,  —  only  we 


HORTUS  SICCUS.  379 

were  not  mothers  at  all,  but,  a  great  deal  more  doting 
than  they,  mere  horticultural  gossips ! 

But  there  is  one  Hortus  Siccus  more.  We  turn  over 
its  leaves  at  home.  It  is  the  consolation  of  many  an 
hour  when  we  are  too  tired  to  talk  and  too  nervous  to 
rest.  Here  it  lies  right  before  us,  —  "  B.  K.  Bliss  &  Son's 
Illustrated  Spring  Catalogue,  &c,  &c."  Some  love  straw- 
berries and  cream ;  some  love  evening  oysters  and  (new) 
cider ;  some  delight  in  crabs  and  stewed  terrapin  ;  some 
refresh  themselves  with  grapes  and  pears ;  but  we  suck 
honey  out  of  catalogues,  find  royal  confections  in  paper, 
and  strew  over  many  a  wearied  hour  sweet  wreaths  and 
blossoms,  from  the  very  land  of  rest ! 

"  A  catalogue  ! "  Good  as  a  garden,  madam,  if  you 
only  think  so.  "  A  paper  garden  !  "  Yes,  sir,  a  printed 
garden,  and,  if  you  only  have  eyes,  as  good  as  ever  was 
made  of  dirt,  and  in  some  things  a  deal  better ! 

With  my  catalogue  before  me  I  go  on  through  the 
long  list,  and  every  flower  of  them  stands  up  before  me, 
just  as  the  sun  will  kiss  them  and  the  wind  shake  hands 
with  them  next  summer.  Yea,  finer!  I  shall  never 
have  such  columbines  in  my  garden  as  I  carry  in  my 
head.  I  shall  never  see  such  bowers  of  morning-glories 
at  Peekskill  as  spring  up  out  of  my  catalogue.  See  those 
asters :  was  there  ever  a  mortal  bed  of  such  magnificent 
blossoms  as  I  see  right  before  me  ? 

"Where?" 

"  There  !    Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  nothing  but  your  open  pamphlet." 

"  O,  well.   '  Eyes  have  they  but  thej  see  not/  Any 


380  HORTUS  SICCUS. 

fool  could  see  what  is  right  before  him.  To  see  what  is 
not  here,  that  is  the  true  sight." 

And  then,  I  have  no  trouble  with  my  airy  garden.  I 
get  along  with  the  work  so  fast.  There  are  no  grubs  in 
it,  no  rose-bugs,  no  aphides.  Everything  grows  without 
mildew  or  blight. 

This  garden  in  the  air  is  the  only  place  that  I  know 
of  where  human  nature  is  perfect,  gardening  inexpensive, 
luck  always  good,  the  season  always  fine,  and  flowers 
always  a  success. 

A  Hortus  Siccus  a  dry  thing  ?  No,  it  is  the  one  im- 
perishable Eden.  When  your  own  roaming  Fancy  is 
both  Providence  and  Gardener,  why  should  you  not 
have  a  fairy  garden? 


V. 

UNCLAIMED  HAPPINESS. 

March,  1870. 

Who  that  looked  upon  a  lump  of  coal  for  the  first  time 
would  dream  of  the  real  contents  of  that  black  mass  ?  It 
was  known  that  it  would  in  combustion  give  forth  light 
and  heat  from  "  time  whereof  the  memory  of  man  run- 
neth not  to  the  contrary "  ;  though  even  this  was  not 
known  respecting  anthracite  coal  until  a  comparatively 
recent  period.  It  wTas  known  that  it  would  burn,  but 
how  to  burn  it  was  a  secret  which  accident  disclosed. 
After  infinite  pokings  and  stirrings,  some  workmen  at 
an  experimental  furnace  went  to  dinner  in  despair  of 
kindling  stone  coal.  Being  let  alone  for  an  hour,  the 
coal  took  the  matter  into  its  own  black  hands,  and  went 
into  vigorous  combustion,  teaching  the  men  that  the  way 
to  burn  it  was  not  to  stir  it.  There  are  people  just  like 
it.  If  you  stir  them  you  put  them  out.  If  you  put 
kindling  material  under  them  and  let  them  alone,  they 
will  ignite. 

But  all  this  is  by  the  way,  for  it  was  the  bituminous 
coal  that  we  were  thinking  about.  Who  would  even 
imagine  what  treasures  it  contained  ?  That  exquisite 
flavor  of  pineapples,  that  fragrant  strawberry  perfume, 
those  other  delicate  flavors  for  confectionery  and  cook- 
ing,—  did  you  know  that  they  were  made  out  of  coal  ? 
Those  exquisite  tints,  —  the  solferinos^the  magentas, 


332 


UNCLAIMED  HAPPINESS. 


and  other  fashionable  colors,  —  do  the  belles  that  flaunt 
their  ribbons  so  bewitchingly  know  that  all  these  charm- 
ing hues  are  extracted  from  coal  ?  How  much  chemistry 
teaches  men  *to  see  in  common  things  !  How  much,  too, 
the  microscope  reveals  !  The  air  is  full  of  impalpable 
dust.  Let  the  glass  be  put  to  it,  and  behold,  that  dust 
is  a  treasury  of  curiosities,  a  very  museum !  Invisible 
seeds,  fragments  of  feathers,  powder  of  leaves,  germs  and 
spores  of  innumerable  fungi,  —  something  rubbed  off 
from  every  substance  on  the  globe,  —  so  that  one  could, 
if  enough  skillful,  build  up  again  (out  of  the  dust  which  • 
settles  on  his  Bible)  beasts,  birds,  minerals,  trees,  gar- 
dens, and  a  whole  pet  world  ! 

There  is  a  precise  analogy  in  moral  life.  Men  are 
seeking  enjoyment  in  rude  ways,  or  sulking  in  a  com- 
plaining mood,  because  they  have  nothing  to  make  them 
happy  !  But  the  art  of  being  happy  lies  in  the  power 
of  extracting  happiness  from  common  things.  If  we 
pitch  our  expectations  high,  if  we  are  arrogant  in  our 
pretensions,  if  we  will  not  be  happy  except  when  our 
self-love  is  gratified,  our  pride  stimulated,  our  vanity 
fed,  or  a  fierce  excitement  kindled,  then  we  shall  have 
but  little  satisfaction  out  of  this  life.  The  whole  globe 
is  a  museum  to  those  who  have  eyes  to  see.  Bare  plays 
are  unfolding  before  every  man  who  can  read  the  drama 
of  life  intelligently.  Not  go  to  theaters  ?  Wicked 
to  see  plays  ?  Every  street  is  a  theater.  One  cannot 
open  his  eyes  without  seeing  unconscious  players.  There 
are  Othellos,  and  Hamlets,  and  Bears,  and  Falstaffs ; 
Ophelias,  Bos^inds,  and  Juliets,  all  about  us.  Mid- 

» 


UNCLAIMED  HAPPINESS.  383 

summer  Night  Dreams  are  performing  in  our  heavens. 
Happy  ?  A  walk  up  and  down  Fulton  Street  in  Brook- 
lyn is  as  good  as  a  play.  The  children,  the  nurses,  the 
maidens,  the  mothers  ;  the  wealthy  everybodies,  the  queer 
men,  the  unconscious  buffoons,  the  drolls ;  the  earnest 
nonsense,  and  the  whimsical  earnestness  of  men ;  the 
shop-windows,  the  cars,  the  horses,  the  carriages,  —  bless 
us !  there  is  not  half  time  enough  to  enjoy  all  that  is  to 
be  seen  in  these  things.  Or,  if  the  mood  takes  you,  go  in 
and  talk  with  the  people,  choosing,  of  course,  fitting  times 
'  and  seasons.  Be  cheerful  yourself,  and  good  natured,  and 
respectful,  and  every  man  has  a  secret  for  you  worth  know- 
ing. There  is  a  school-master  waiting  for  you  behind 
every  door.  Every  shopman  has  a  look  at  life  different 
from  yours.  Human  nature  puts  on  as  many  kinds  of  foli- 
age as  trees  do,  and  is  far  better  worth  studying.  Anger 
is  not  alike  in  any  two  men,  nor  pride,  vanity,  nor  love. 
Every  fool  is  a  special  fool,  and  there  is  no  duplicate. 

What  are  trades  and  all  kinds  of  business  but  labora- 
tories where  the  ethereal  thought  is  transmuted  into 
some  visible  shape  of  matter  ?  What  are  workmen  but 
translators  of  mind  into  matter  ?  Men  are  cutting,  saw- 
ing, filing,  joining,  fitting,  polishing.  But  every  article  is 
so  much  mind  condensed  into  matter.  Work  is  incarna- 
tion. Nobody  knows  a  city  who  only  drives  along  its 
streets.  There  are  vaults  under  streets,  cellars  under 
houses,  attics  above,  shops  behind.  At  every  step  men 
are  found  tucked  away  in  some  queer  nook,  doing  unex- 
pected things,  themselves  odd,  and  full  of  entertaining 
knowledge. 


384  UNCLAIMED  HAPPINESS. 

It  is  kindly  sympathy  with  human  life  that  enables 
one  to  secure  happiness.  Pride  is  like  an  unsilvered 
glass,  through  which  all  sights  pass,  leaving  no  impres- 
sion. But  sympathy,  like  a  mirror,  catches  everything 
that  lives.  The  whole  world  makes  pictures  for  a  mir- 
ror-heart. The  best  of  all  is,  that  a  kind  heart  and  a 
keen  eye  are  never  within  the  sheriff's  reach.  He  may 
sequester  your  goods  ;  but  he  cannot  shut  up  the  world 
or  confiscate  human  life.  As  long  as  these  are  left,  one 
may  defy  poverty,  neglect  of  friends,  and  even,  to  a  de- 
gree, misfortune  and  sickness,  and  still  find  hours  brim- 
ful every  day  of  innocent  and  nourishing  enjoyment ! 


VI. 


"  THE  OLD  SAWMILL." 

April,  1870. 

0  that  blessed  day  ! 

What  day  was  that?  Fourth  of  July?  General 
training-day  ?  Thanksgiving  ?  Christmas  ?  None  of 
all  these.  Far  more  important  to  our  heart  was  the  day 
when  we  first  went  a-fishing  alone ! 

Whether  we  had  permission  we  cannot  at  this  late 
period  certainly  determine.  We  presume,  from  the 
recollection  of  no  anxiety,  and  from  the  distinct  remem- 
brance of  general  exhilaration,  that  we  had  a  dispensation 
on  that  day  to  roam. 

There  is  a  vague  impression,  too,  of  digging  worms, 
of  tying  a  piece  of  twine  to  a  pole.  Then  went  we 
forth  eastward  toward  the  river  Bantam.  Now,  the  river 
Bantam  was  to  our  young  heart  what  the  J ordan  was  to 
a  good  and  patriotic  Jew.  It  was  the  chief  stream  in 
our  neighborhood.  It  was  the  chief  resort  for  swimming 
purposes.  For,  though  it  was  hardly  knee-deep,  and  in 
many  places  easily  jumped  across,  yet  there  were  pools, 
and  notably  one,  called  "  Lord's  Hole  "  (doubtless  from  a 
Litchfield  family  of  the  name  of  Lord),  where  a  small 
boy  could  go  in  "  over  head."  It  was  one  of  those  clear 
brooks,  —  a  "mere  brook,  which  mostly  brawls  over  peb- 
ble-stones, now  and  then  widening  into  quite  a  sheet, 
and  then,  like  men  who  have  been  too  generous,  growing 

17  T 


386  "THE  OLD  SAWMILL." 

narrow  again  and  deep.  Along  its  banks  grew  alder- 
bushes  in  abundance,  and  here  and  there  great  trees 
reached  their  branches  over  the  stream  and  watched 
themselves  in  the  water  below. 

Not  a  great  way  above  Lord's  Hole  was  "  the  old  saw- 
mill " ;  not  that  there  was  then  a  mill  there,  or  even  a 
mill-dam,  but  tradition  said  that  there  had  been  one ; 
and  the  legend  was  probable,  inasmuch  as  two  steep 
banks  on  either  side,  sloping  up  some  twenty  feet, 
seemed  to  have  formed  the  wings  of  a  dam;  and  the 
water  made  a  fall  as  if  underneath  were  the  remains  of 
some  obstruction. 

On  the  blessed  day  above  mentioned,  a  bare-footed 
boy  might  have  been  seen  on  a  June  afternoon,  with 
his  alder-pole  on  his  shoulder,  tripping  through  the 
meadow  where  dandelions  and  wild  geraniums  were 
in  bloom,  and  steering  for  the  old  sawmill.  As  soon 
as  the  meadow  was  crossed,  the  fence  scaled,  and  a  de- 
scent begun,  all  familiar  objects  were  gone,  and  the  over- 
powering consciousness  of  being  alone  set  one's  imagina- 
tion into  a  dance  of  fear.  Could  we  find  our  way  back  ? 
"What  if  a  big  bull  should  come  out  of  those  bushes  ? 
What  if  a  great  big  man  should  come  along  and  carry  us 
off  ?  To  a  six-year-old  boy  these  were  very  serious  mat- 
ters, and  nothing  could  have  so  well  tested  the  eager- 
ness of  our  purpose  as  perseverance  under  these  soul- 
bewildering  suggestions  ;  for  realities  in  after-life  are 
seldom  so  impressive  as  imaginations  in  early  life.  A 
child's  fears  are  cruel.  They  are  to  him  the  signs  of 
absolute  realities,  and  he  is  quite  unable  to  reason  on 

# 

* 


"THE  OLD  SAWMILL."  387 

them,  and  is  helpless  to  repel  or  to  endure  them.  The 
fears  of  our  own  childhood  constitute  a  chapter  in  mental 
philosophy. 

But  no  sooner  did  we  see  the  sparkle  of  the  water 
than  our  soul  grew  calm  again  and  happy. 

Now,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  we  put  on  a  worm. 
We  threw  in  the  hook,  and  trembled  all  over  with  the 
excitement ! 

The  hook  and  bait  fell  upon  the  wrinkled  water,  went 
quietly  down  the  stream,  and  swept  in  near  the  shore, 
where  some  projecting  stone  roofed  over  a  little  pool. 
Oat  of  that  pool  our  little  eyes  saw  something  dart,  and 
our  little  hands,  all  a-tremble,  felt  something  pull.  In  an 
instant,  with  a  spasm  of  energy,  we  drew  back  the  line : 
there  was  a  flash  in  the  air,  —  a  wriggling  flash,  —  and 
something  smote  the  rocky,  gravelly  bank  behind.  Scram- 
bling up,  we  found  a  shiner ;  but,  alas  !  smashed  to  pieces. 
Soon  another  and  another  fared  in  like  manner,  and  it  was 
long  before  we  could  subdue  our  nerves  so  as  not  to  dash 
the  fish  to  pieces.  Our  courage  grew  every  moment. 
What  did  we  care  if  there  was  a  bull  in  the  bushes  ? 
What  if  a  beggar-man  should  come  along  ?  What  if  a 
great  black  dog  should,  —  but  that  thought  was  a  little 
too  serious.  Black  dogs  were  terrors  not  to  be  lightly 
thought  of,  even  by  a  six-year-old  urchin  who  had  caught 
fish,  —  alone,  too !  And  so,  gathering  up  two  roach  and 
three  shiners,  we  started  home.  Up  the  sloping  hill  we 
ran,  till  our  father's  house  shone  out  from  among  the 
trees ;  and  then,  with  the  dignity  and  nonchalance  of  a 
conqueror,  we  prepared  to  make  a  triumphal  entrance. 


c 


388 


"THE  OLD  SAWMILL." 


But  here,  as  often  happens  in  the  reminiscences  of  our 
childhood,  the  vision  fails.  We  can  recollect  nothing  of 
our  reception.  Since  then  we  have  fished  in  many  a 
stream  and  lake,  and  in  the  deep  sea,  but  never  with 
half  the  exhilaration  of  that  first  joyful  hour  upon  the 
Bantam  ! 

Not  even  there,  again,  would  the  fire  be  rekindled ! 
For,  not  long  after,  taking  a  younger  brother  to  be  a 
marveling  witness  of  our  success,  we  went  again  to  the 
old  sawmill.  The  air  was  disenchanted.  The  roads  and 
bushes  had  no  spirit  in  them.  The  brook  gurgled  and 
rushed.  We  caught  our  fish, — a  few, — but  without  craze, 
and  came  solemnly  home,  wondering  what  the  reason 
could  be  that  the  first  time  could  be  had  but  once. 

Since  then  we  have  seen  many  grown-up  boys  seeking 
to  reproduce  first  sensations  and  to  make  novelties  per- 
petual. But  each  day  must  provide  its  own  first  times. 
Those  of  yesterday  are  shrunk  and  faded. 


VII. 

THE  HOOSIER  CAT. 

April,  1870. 

When  we  profess  a  warm  liking  for  cats  we  don't  wish 
to  be  judged  by  too  rigorous  an  ideal.  We  do  not  like 
them  above  all  animals,  but  simply  among  other  things. 
It  is  folly  to  compare  them  with  horses,  dogs,  birds,  and 
judge  them  by  qualities  which  they  were  not  sent  into 
the  world  to  possess.  It  is  as  cats  that  we  like  them.  They 
hold  a  place  in  the  series  which  nothing  else  can  fill,  and 
in  their  place  they  are  to  be  admired.  They  are  re- 
proached with  fierceness,  with  selfishness,  with  treach- 
ery. But  the  fierceness  is  ancestral.  Ferocity  has  soft- 
ened down  in  them  to  mere  official  severity.  The  cat  is 
appointed  of  men  to  destroy  vermin.  It  must  match 
itself  with  the  game  it  hunts.  In  the  battle  of  wain- 
scots and  crevices,  where  rats  do  harbor,  and  mice,  cats 
must  be  fierce.  Every  litter  of  rats  is  a  threat  at  the 
pantry  and  cupboard,  and  a  defiance  to  cats.  What  a 
cat's  moral  constitution  is  we  have  no  book  that  dis- 
closes. But  if  there  is  a  rudimentary  conscience  in  a 
cat,  without  doubt  this  alleged  fierceness  is  but  an  irreg- 
ular action  of  moral  sense.  It  is  eagerness  in  perform- 
ance of  duty.  Do  we  not  see  like  inflections  of  conscience 
in  the  human  race  ?  Is  the  cat  anything  but  the  Inqui- 
sition  of  the  cellar  and  the  barn  ?  Is  it  not  the  heresy- 
hunter  of  the  feline  sect  ?    With  what  unerring  instinct 


390  THE  HOOSIEE,  CAT. 

does  it  suspect !  How  keen  is  its  eye,  how  stiff  its  bear- 
ing, and  how  terrible  its  spring,  when  some  luckless  her- 
etic of  the  granary  or  cupboard  ventures  to  publish 
himself!  If  nature  has  whispered  to  the  cat,  "Lo,  I 
make  thee  ruler  over  all  vermin,"  ought  not  every  con- 
scientious cat  to  exercise  justice  to  the  uttermost  ? 

They  are  called  selfish.  We  sorrowfully  admit  that 
cats  are  not  generous,  but  we  see  no  evidence  of  a  grasp- 
ing, avaricious  selfishness.  They  have  self-respect.  They 
know  instinctively  whether  they  are  liked  or  hated. 
They  hold  themselves  aloof  from  strangers,  because  they 
have  had  too  much  experience  of  the  world's  opinion  of 
cats.  It  is  said  that  a  cat  will  court  you,  rub  against 
your  knee,  solicit  your  hand  upon  her  head,  for  the  mere 
sake  of  its  own  pleasure.  As  this  is  an  exhibition  never 
permitted  in  human  life,  it  is  no  wonder  that  men  are 
disgusted  with  it !  But  our  own  experience  and  obser- 
vation teach  us  that  cats  are  susceptible  of  attachments 
among  themselves,  toward  men,  and  even  toward  animals 
of  different  species.  If  kindly  treated,  they  will  often 
manifest  as  much  affection  as  a  dog,  following.  Last 
summer  we  saw  our  foreman  at  Peekskill  every  day 
with  a  troop  of  cats  going  forth  with  him  to  his  work. 
They  followed  behind  like  so  many  terriers.  "While  he 
was  hewing,  or  otherwise  working,  they  would  lie  off  in 
the  grass,  or  sit  on  the  edges  of  the  grass,  or  creep  near 
the  wall ;  but  no  sooner  did  Mr.  Turner  start  for  some 
other  place  than  they  gathered  behind  him  and  kept 
company.  On  one  occasion,  he  was  setting  out  flowers 
in  front  of  the  cottage.    One  of  the  Maltese  accompanied 


THE  HOOSIER  CAT.  391 

him.  When  he  stooped  down  to  put  in  the  plant,  the 
cat  mounted  his  back.  When  Mr.  Turner  rose,  Pussy- 
would  jump  off.  As  soon  as  the  master  stooped  down 
again,  the  cat  resumed  her  place. 

One  evening,  after  dark,  fearing  that  some  cattle  had 
broken  in,  Mr.  Turner  made  a  circuit  of  the  whole  farm. 
Although  it  was  wet  under  foot  and  stormy  above,  the 
Maltese  cat  set  out  unbidden,  and  accompanied  Mr.  T. 
over  the  whole  farm,  and  waited  on  him  back  to  his  own 
door.  Is  there  not  in  such  a  cat  something  of  the  fidel- 
ity of  a  dog  ?  A  cat  is  sooner  taught  the  proprieties  of 
life  than  is  a  dog ;  and  when  well  grown,  with  half  a 
chance,  is  far  neater  than  dogs  or  horses.  Only  birds 
are  as  neat  as  cats.  Their  power,  grace,  agility,  and 
shrewdness  are  known  of  all.  If  we  were  obliged  to 
choose  which  we  would  have,  a  cat  or  a  dog,  we  should 
unhesitatingly  say,  Both  of  them ! 

The  attachment  which  human  beings  form  for  cats 
speaks  well  for  these  domestic  hunters.  The  family  cat 
is  as  much  th<y  oy  of  children  as  the  family  dog. 

We  have  j\M  received  from  a  town  in  Indiana  a  boy's 
letter  that  is  too  good  to  lose :  — 

"Boone  County,  Indiana,  April  3,  1870/ 

"  Mr.  Beecher  : 

"Dear  Sir,  —  I  have  a  nice  cat  I  would  like  to  send  you,  if  I  thought 
it  would  be  acceptable.  He  is  about  two  years  old,  is  very  large,  and  is 
a  good  cat.  His  color  is  gray,  with  white  feet  and  a  white  nose.  My 
father  is  going  to  move  to  Arkansas.  I  asked  him  if  I  could  take  my 
cat.  He  said  he  was  not  able  to  pay  what  it  would  cost  to  take  him.  I 
then  asked  him  if  I  could  send  he  to  you.  He  said  he  was  not  able. 
So  I  thought  I  would  write  to  you  about  it  myself.    I  know  you  like 


392 


THE  HOOSIER  CAT. 


pets.  If  you  do  not  want  the  cat,  I  will  not  expeet  to  hear  from  you. 
And  if  you  do  want  him,  you  can  let  me  know.  I  hope  you  will  not 
publish  my  name  if  you  do  not  want  my  cat. 

"  Yours,  with  respect, 

<(  ______  » 

• 

Here  is  a  Hoosier  boy,  who  has  a  favorite  cat,  and, 
being  about  to  move  to  Arkansas,  he  looks  about  to  pick 
the  man  on  this  continent  most  likely  to  do  justice  to 
his  cat,  and,  blessings  on  his  head  !  he  has  selected  us. 
It  is  the  most  flattering  compliment  of  our  life.  The 
universities  that  were  about  to  offer  degrees  can  step 
aside  now ;  we  have  no  need  of  them. 

Yes,  by  all  means,  send  the  cat  in  a  box  by  express, 
directed  to  Peekskill,  N.  Y.  The  expressmen  are  kind 
on  such  occasions,  and  no  doubt  will  feed  Pussy,  and  see 
that  she  has  fair  play  on  the  road.  If  they  will  be  rea- 
sonable in  charges  we  shall  not  begrudge  the  bill,  for  the 
sake  of  receiving  the  Hoosier  boy's  cat,  —  to  whom  we 
now  reply :  — 

"  My  dear  Boy  :  —  We  accept  the  care  of  the  cat,  and  will  be  as  good 
to  it  as  we  can.  It  was^a  humane  thing  in  you  to  &e  that  your  cat  had 
a  good  home. 

"  With  your  leave  he  shall  be  called  the  '  Hoosier  Cat.'  God  bless 
you  in  your  new  home. 

"  Truly  yours, 

•  H.  W.  B." 


VIII. 


A  PLEA  FOR  BOYS. 

May,  1870. 

"  I  DO  believe  that  the  very  spirit  of  mischief  is  in 
that  boy  !  From  morning  to  night  it  is  out  of  one  thing 
into  another.    There  is  nothing  safe  when  he 's  about." 

Why  don't  you  whip  him  ? 

"  Whip  him !  There  is  hardly  a  day  goes  over  his 
head  that  he 's  not  punished,  besides  the  grand  totals 
that  are  paid  off  by  his  father  about  once  a  fortnight." 

Is  he  ugly  ?    Do  you  think  he  means  to  do  wrong  ? 

"  That 's  the  worst  of  it.  He  has  as  kind  a  heart  as 
need  be,  and  is  always  so  sorry.  But  it  does  no  good. 
The  minute  my  back  is  turned  he  is  tying  up  the  two 
cats,  or  putting  chairs  before  the  door  to  see  them  tum- 
ble over,  when  some  one  opens  it,  or  pouncing  out  of  a 
corner  suddenly  upon  Sally,  whose  screams  seem  to  de- 
light him.  Yesterday  he  got  the  scissors,  and  began  to 
cut  his  own  hair.  A  perfect  fright  he  made  of  himself. 
He  tied  Aunt  Prue's  dress  to  the  back  of  her  rocking- 
chair  the  other  day,  so  that  when  she  got  up  the  chair 
got  up  too.  Only  a  week  ago  he  put  a  wick  into  his 
father's  bottle  of  bear's  grease,  and  set  it  on  fire ;  and 
yesterday  he  must  needs  collect  all  the  tooth-powder  he 
could  find  in  the  house,  and  mix  it  in  a  tumbler  with 
lamp-oil,  to  paint  the  bureau  with  !  0  dear  !  I  am  never 

at  rest  a  minute  with  him,  except  when  he  is  outdoors 

17  * 


394  A  PLEA  FOR  BOYS. 


at  play.  There  is  somebody  scolding  down  stairs,  or 
crying  out  up  stairs ;  and  when  there  is  silence,  I  know 
that  some  peculiar  mischief  is  hatching.  I 've  talked 
and  talked  to  him,  but  there  is  no  use  in  it.  He  is  sorry, 
and  will  not  do  so  again ;  and  that  seems  to  act  like  an 
absolution,  and  he  is  ready  with  a  cheerful  heart  for  the 
next  prank.  0,  if  Eobert  was  only  half  as  good  as  Mrs. 
Goodkins'  James  !  Well,  if  I  ever  live  to  see  him  grow 
up,  I  hope  that  I  shall  have  some  comfort  in  the  boy,  for 
heaven  knows  I  have  very  little  now  ! " 

Now,  we  take  the  boy's  side.  We  know  just  how  he 
feels,  and  just  what  the  mother  is. 

A  fine  organization  and  high  health  fill  the  lad  to 
overflowing  with  animal  spirits,  and  the  parents  are  try- 
ing to  cork  it  up,  and,  in  spite  of  them,  nature  drives  out 
the  cork.  The  parents  are  in  regular  occupations,  and 
have  no  surplus  vitality  to  vex  them.  But  vigorous 
boys  generate  a  vast  deal  of  motive  force,  for  which  no 
regular  channels  are  provided. 

In  a  family  where  all  the  children  work  at  some  ap- 
propriate  trade,  boys  are  less  likely  to  fall  into  mischief. 
This  is  one  reason  why  it  is  easier  to  bring  up  children 
on  a  farm  than  in  a  town.  It  is  true  that  there  are  fewer 
temptations.  But  a  main  reason  is  that  there  is  a  legit- 
imate channel  for  the  boys'  energies  to  flow  in.  Govern 
boys  by  keeping  them  busy  !  Now  and  then  there  are 
bad  natures  that  will  go  perversely  wrong ;  but  ordina- 
rily boys  do  not  do  wrong  on  purpose.  Their  high  spir- 
its get  them  into  mischief,  and  then  they  go  wrong  for 
the  sake  of  avoiding  the  consequences.    Work  off  the 


* 


A  PLEA  FOR  BOYS.  395 

steam,  and  there  will  be  less  pressure  and  fewer  explo- 
sions. 

And  now  comes  the  very  question  for  which  all  this 
has  been  said.  What  shall  we  do  with  boys  ?  What 
shall  parents  do  who  live  in  towns  and  cities  ?  What 
shall  professional  men  do  whose  children  cannot  partici- 
pate in  their  parent's  work  ? 

Instead  of  keeping  them  anxiously  within  doors,  trust 
them  out  as  much  as  possible.  Do  not  let  watching  be- 
come spying.  Let  children  have  sports  and  companions 
and  unwatched  liberty.  Put  them  upon  their  honor. 
Boys  will  early  respond  to  this.  Do  not  make  too  much 
of  their  mistakes  and  faults.  How  can  one  be  a  child 
and  not  be  full  of  faults  ?  Explain  their  mistakes  gently. 
Be  patient !  Wait  for  them  !  Children  must  have  time 
to  grow.  Somebody  had  to  wait  for  you.  Never  let  fear 
make  a  gulf  between  the  child  and  you.  Within  due 
bounds,  liberty  is  the  best  thing  for  a  child,  as  it  is  for 
a  man.  It  will  lead  to  irregularities ;  but  out  of  these 
will  come  experience,  and,  gradually,  self-control.  The 
object  of  all  family  government  is  to  teach  children  to 
get  along  without  being  governed.  They  must  therefore 
be  trusted ;  even  if  they  abuse  it,  they  must  be  trusted. 
Keep  them  busy  with  pleasant  work,  if  possible.  Awaken 
in  them  curiosity  about  the  things  which  lie  around  them. 
A  very  little  instruction  will  make  children  interested 
in  plants,  minerals,  natural  history,  in  literary  curiosities, 
autographs,  postage-stamp  collections,  and  a  thousand 
things  which  will  inspire  pleasure  in  their  reason  rather 
than  in  their  appetites. 


396  A  PLEA  FOR  BOYS. 

Never  scold  children,  but  soberly  and  quietly  reprove. 
Do  not  employ  shame  except  in  extreme  cases.  The 
suffering  is  acute,  it  hurts  self-respect  in  the  child,  to 
reprove  a  child  before  the  family ;  to  ridicule  it,  to  tread 
down  its  feelings  ruthlessly,  is  to  wake  in  its  bosom  ma- 
lignant passion.  A  child  is  defenseless ;  he  is  not  allowed 
to  argue.  He  is  often  tried,  condemned,  and  executed 
in  a  second.  He  finds  himself  of  little  use ;  he  is  put 
to  things  he  don't  care  for,  and  withheld  from  things  that 
he  does  like ;  he  is  made  the  convenience  of  grown-up 
people ;  is  hardly  supposed  to  have  any  rights  except  in 
a  corner,  as  it  were ;  is  sent  hither  and  thither ;  is  made 
to  get  up  or  sit  down  for  everybody's  convenience  but 
his  own ;  is  snubbed  and  catechised  until  he  learns  to 
dodge  government  and  elude  authority,  and  then  be 
whipped  for  being  "  such  a  lying  whelp  that  no  one 
can  believe  him." 

Well,  well ;  girls  may  have  the  hardest  time  of  it  in 
after-life,  but  for  the  first  fifteen  years  boys  are  the  suf- 
ferers. 


IX. 

GOING  TO  SCHOOL. 

May,  1870. 

"  Did  you  like  to  go  to  school  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  I  did  not.  I  detested  it,  —  all  its  precedents, 
all  its  accompaniments,  and  all  its  sequents." 

But  this  applies  only  to  the  primary  schools.  The 
academy  and  the  college  furnished  many  hours  which 
are  to  be  remembered  with  gladness ;  the  early  schools 
not  one.  They  were  engines  of  torture,  devised  expressly 
to  make  good  boys  unhappy ;  and  seldom  do  contrivances 
succeed  so  well.  Let  us  see,  —  the  first  school  that  we 
remember  was  Miss  Collins's.  Deacon  Collins  lived  on 
the  green,  southeast  of  old  Litchfield's  old  church.  Up 
stairs  we  climbed,  we  remember  that ;  on  a  long  bench 
we  sat,  with  our  feet  dangling  in  the  air ;  and  a  tall, 
kindly-faced  woman  was  there.  But  besides,  we  remem- 
ber nothing,  —  of  book,  slate,  or  recitation. 

Next  we  went  to  Miss  Kilborne's,  on  the  west  side  of 
the  square ;  and  of  this  school  two  things  stand  forth  in 
memory  :  first,  that  the  wind  on  this  high  hill  used  al- 
most to  take  us  into  the  air,  —  the  wind  that  seemed 
never  to  be  done  with  blowing.  It  blew  high  and  low. 
It  swept  along  the  ground,  slamming  open  gates,  whirl- 
ing around  corners,  pushing  us  against  the  fence,  and 
then  into  the  ditch,  —  a  little,  fat,  clumsy  boy  that  hardly 
feared  anything  visible,  but  dreaded  all  mysteries,  and 


398 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL. 


shook  with  vague  and  nameless  terror  at  the  roar  of  the 
wind  up  in  the  high  tree-tops, — the  great  elm-trees  that 
swayed  and  groaned  -as  if  they,  too,  were  in  cruel  hands. 
The  other  memory  of  this  school  was  of  sitting  weari- 
somely for  hours  on  a  bench,  and  swinging  our  little  legs 
in  the  air,  for  want  of  length  to  reach  the  floor.  Yes, 
two  other  things  we  recall:  one  a  pinch  on  the  ear, 
and  the  other  a  rousing  slap  on  the  head  for  some  real 
or  putative  misdemeanor,  and  a  helpless  rage  inside  in 
consequence.  But  bf  lessons,  knowledge,  pleasure,  there 
is  nothing.  The  picture  is  blank.  Not  a  word  of  tender- 
ness, not  one  sympathizing,  coddling  act,  not  the  sight 
of  a  sugar-plum,  which  in  that  day  would  have  been  to  us 
more  beautiful  than  the  stones  of  the  walls  of  the  Heav- 
enly City.  0,  why  did  they  put  such  tempting  candy 
in  long  glass  jars,  and  set  them  in  the  windows,  to  put 
little  wretches  in  such  a  fever  of  longing,  and  to  make 
them  so  unhappy  !  How  many  times  have  we  walked 
the  long  road  to  school  looking  all  the  way  on  the  ground, 
in  hopes  of  finding  a  cent.  Such  things  had  happened. 
Boys  there  were  in  our  own  neighborhood  who  had  found 
cents  along  the  road,  and  even  a  sixpence  in  one  case. 
There  was  a  rumor  that  twenty-five  cents,  in  one  in- 
stance, had  turned  up.  But  we  never  heeded  that.  Had 
a  quarter  been  lost,  the  whole  town  would  have  been 
searched  as  with  a  lighted  candle,  and  no  boy  would 
have  been  left  the  luck  of  finding  it.  Still,  the  story 
acted  on  the  imagination  like  an  Arabian  Night's  tale. 
But  over  against  that  window,  —  was  it  Buell's  store  ? 
He  never  gave  us  a  particle  of  candy,  and  so  his  name 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL. 


rests  uncertainly  in  our  memory,  —  over  against  that 
store  we  paused  full  often,  and  imagined  that  the  day 
might  come  —  what  things  had  not  happened  that  seemed 
extravagant  to  think  of  ?  —  when  we  should  set  up  a 
store,  and  keep  candy,  and  have  a  right  to  put  our  hand 
in  just  when  we  pleased  ! . 

We  came  near  doing  ourselves  a  wrong,  in  saying 
that  we  learned  nothing.  We  know  distinctly  that 
Harriet,  one  brilliant  morning,  plucked  dandelions,  and 
taught  us  how  to  split  them  and  roll  them  up  into  curls. 
It  h^s  been  a  great  comfort  to  us  many  times  since. 

Our  next  school  was  Miss  Pierce's.  It  was  a  ladies' 
school.  We  were  sent  thither  to  be  under  the  care  of 
elder  sisters.  We  don't  recollect  a  single  recitation.  For 
days  together  we  were  regarded  as  a  mere  punctuation- 
mark,  not  noticed  unless  dropped  out  of  place  or  turned 
upside  down.  Mr.  Brace  —  father  of  C.  L.  B.  —  used  to 
pass  by  and  look  at  us  with  a  knowing  face,  and  snap 
his  fingers  in  a  significant  way,  without  a  word.  But  that 
mysterious  snap  was  good  for  ten  minutes'  propriety,  and 
sometimes  for  even  half  an  hour. 

Once,  for  laughing  out  loud  at  somebody's  fun,  —  one 
had  only  to  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  or  to  point  a 
finger  at  us,  to  set  off  that  laugh  which  always  lay  pent 
up  waiting  for  deliverance,  —  we  were  tied  to  the  leg  of 
the  bench.  The  acutapain  of  shame  pierced  like  a  knife, 
—  a  kiss  cured  it.  For  a  kind-faced  girl,  one  of  the  elder 
young  ladies  finishing  her  education  there,  looked  upon 
our  tearful  eyes  and  scarlet-blushing  misery,  took  pity 
on  us,  put  a  soft  hand  on  our  head,  and  stooped  and 


400 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL. 


kissed  us.  If  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  a  thirsty  child  shall 
bring  an  immortal  blessing  to  the  giver,  how  much  more 
a  warm  kiss  to  a  crying  child  unable  to  defend  itself 
against  shame  !  .  May  the  angels  lay  their  hands  upon 
her  as  she  dawns  upon  heaven,  and  kiss  from  her  face 
every  tear  and  sorrow  of  the  sad  world  behind  her ! 

All  experiences  of  children  are  evanescent,  and  few 
sorrows  have  they  that  are  not  drowned  in  the  first  sleep, 
dead  as  Pharaoh's  host  in  the  Eed  Sea.  The  school  was 
not  expected  to  teach  us,  and  it  fulfilled  every  expecta- 
tion. Our  time  was  in  danger  at  home  of  raveling  out 
in  mischief,  and  the  school  was  a  mere  basting-thread  to 
hold  down  the  hem  of  good  behavior.  Next  went  we 
to  the  district  school. 

Not  a  tree  !  Not  a  bush  !  Only  a  stone-wall  on  one 
side  and  a  board-fence  on  the  other.  No  window-blinds. 
The  summer  sun  beat  down  full  upon  the  small,  rough, 
unpainted  school-house.  Here  we  learned  to  catch  flies, 
to  crook  pins  for  boys  to  sit  down  on,  and  from  which 
they  always  arose  with  alacrity.  If  any  man  wishes  to 
know  what  spontaneity  is,  let  him  sit  down  on  a  well- 
prepared  pin.  We  learned  the  rudiments  of  the  cost  of 
"  carrying  on,"  —  an  art  of  the  largest  proportions,  and 
which,  in  schools,  academies,  and  colleges,  is  amply  taught, 
whatever  else  is  omitted.  Our  bearing  was  very  humble. 
We  could  make  a  cat's  cradle  under  the  bench  unseen. 
We  could  look  on  a  book  seemingly  in  study  for  half  an 
hour  without  seeing  a  word.  We  learned  how  to  make 
paper  spit-balls,  and  to  snap  them  across  the  room  with 
considerable  skill.  But  beyond  these  interesting  branches 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL.  401 

we  do  not  think  we  ever  learned  a  thing.  "Why  should 
we  ?  Is  it  possible  for  a  boy  of  six  or  eight  years  in  the 
school-prison,  with  no  incitement  and  no  help,  from  four 
to  six  hours  a  day,  and  with  all  outdoors  beating  on  the 
school-house,  streaming  in  at  the  windows,  coming,  in 
bewitching  sounds,  through  every  crack  and  crevice,  to 
be  studious,  regular,  and  exemplary  ?  A  good  village 
primary  school  ought  to  be  a  cross  between  a  nursery 
and  a  play-room,  and  the  teacher  ought  to  be  playmate, 
nurse,  and  mother,  all  combined.  One  teacher  we  had, 
youjig,  pale,  large-eyed,  sweet  of  voice,  but  not  prone  to 
speak,  —  bless  her !  —  why  must  she  have  consumption, 
and  one  day  disappear  ?  And  the  next  day,  behold,  in 
her  place,  a  tall,  sharp,  nervous,  energetic,  conscientious 
spinster,  whose  conscience  took  to  the  rod  as  a  very 
means  of  grace !  The  first  one  would  have  made  us  love 
and  obey  her.  We  were  even  beginning.  From  the  sec- 
ond we  were  marvelously  delivered. 

"  Mother,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  school." 

"  You  don't  wish  to  grow  up  a  dunce,  do  you,  Henry  ? " 

"  Yes,  marm." 

"  What  ?    Grow  up  like  a  poor,  ignorant  child,  go  out 
to  service,  and  live  without  knowing  anything  ? " 
"  Yes,  marm." 

"  Well,  suppose  you  begin  now.  #1  '11  put  an  apron  on 
you,  and  you  shall  stay  at  home  and  do  housewor^.  How 
would  you  like  that  ? " 
i  "  O  do,  ma." 

Sure  enough,  we  were  permitted  to  stay  away  from 
school  provided  we  would  "do  housework";  and  all 

z 


402  GOING  TO  SCHOOL. 

summer  long  our  hands  set  the  table,  washed  dishes, 
swept  up  crumbs,  dusted  chairs,  scoured  knives ;  our 
feet  ran  of  errands,  besides  the  usual  complement  of 
chores  in  the  barn. 

But  oh !  did  we  not  glory  in  the  exchange  ?  Yes,  and 
in  the  long  summer  afternoons,  when  nothing  more  was 
left  to  do,  did  we  not  allow  a  good  aunt  to  lead  us  along 
those  paths  of  learning  which  before  our  feet  eschewed  ? 

Great  is  our  zeal  for  common  schools,  and  disinterested. 
For  we  are  not  biased  in  favor  of  primary  schools  by  one 
single  pleasant  memory  connected  with  them.  They 
lie  in  our  memory  as  cunningly  devised  engines  for 
putting  poor  little  innocent,  roguish  boys  to  torment, 
because  they  are  mercurial,  fun-loving,  and  impatient 
of  restraint. 


X. 


m  "  LYMAN  BEECHER. 

1775-1863." 

May,  1870. 

These  few  letters  stand  upon  the  end  of  a  large  re- 
cumbent slab  of  granite.  A  cross  lies  flat  upon  the  top 
of  the  block,  being  raised  by  having  the  surrounding  sur- 
face cut  away.  This  is  all.  The  material,  the  symbol, 
and  the  inscription  well  befit  the  burial-place  of  the 
man.  Here,  in  New  Haven,  he  was  born  and  educated. 
The  house  still  remains  in  which  his  father  lived  :  it 
is  not  five  minutes'  walk  between  his  grave  and  his 
cradle.  Yet  it  was  not  the  love  of  birthplace  that 
brought  him  back  to  New  Haven  for  burial,  but  his 
love  of  Nathan  Taylor.  This  was  a  love  of  man  to  man 
surpassing  the  love  of  woman.  It  was  like  that  of  David 
and  Jonathan.  After  he  had  forgotten  almost  everything 
else,  in  extreme  old  age,  he  remembered  this  one  wish, 
and,  by  signs  and  broken  sentences,  indicated  his  wish  to 
be  laid  by  the  side  of  "Aim";  for  Taylor's  personality 
and  heart  remained  clear  in  his  memory  after  he  ceased 
to  remember  his  name.  That  muS  needs  have  been  a 
noble  nature  that,  through  a  long  life,  was  so  loved  by 
such  a  man  as  Lyman  Beecher.  Side  by  side  they  lie, 
between  whom  there  never  came  a  cloud ;  and  that,  too, 
when  both  of  them  were  theologians  and  often  differed, 
and  sat  up  half  the  night  in  high  discussion.    0,  it  was 


404 


LYMAN  BEECHER. 


charming  to  see  m^n  who  believed  in  what  they  taught 
with  such  an  abandonment  of  faith  that  not  the  visible 
world,  nor  human  lif^  nor  household  love  was  so  real 
and  so  transcendent  to  them  as  abstract  truth !  Nor  is  it 
without  a  certain  beauty,  that,  the  farther  away  from  fact 
the  thread  was  spun,  the  more  attenuated  the  philosophy 
became,  the  more  important  it  seemed.  The  globe  and 
the  universe,  to  their  thinking,  hung  upon  distinctions 
finer  than  a  spider's  finest  film.  "We  see  them  now,  in 
the  old  Litchfield  sitting-room,  come  home  from  some 
meeting,  sitting  down  around  the  fire,  and,  after  a  little 
family  chat,  begin  to  edge  toward  the  discussion  that  had 
broken  off  at  their  last  meeting.  They  laid  down  their 
positions  cautiously,  like  two  knights  riding  around  each 
other  in  survey,  before  the  real  struggle  began.  Soon 
they  went  at  it.  They  grew  earnest.  They  stopped  each 
other.  Now  one  seemed  pushing  the  other  with  an  irre- 
sistible analogy ;  but,  in  a  little  time,  some  lucky  turn 
gave  back  the  advantage,  and  all  the  lost  ground  was 
regained  and  some  steps  besides.  Some  explosion  of  wit 
would  set  them  both  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  refresh 
them  for  the  next  wrestle.  The  hours  flew  on :  it  was 
eleven  o'clock,  in  a  town  where  folks  went  to  bed  at  nine ; 
it  was  midnight ;  it  was  one  o'clock  ;  and  back  and  forth 
the  arguments  flew,^metimes  while  they  walked  up  and 
down  with  their  arms  over  each  other's  shoulders,  some- 
times^Beecher  sitting  on  Taylor's  knee,  sometimes  sitting 
face  to  face,  arms  going  in  gestures,  the  forefinger  point- 
ing out  the  line  of  argument.  At  length  a  tall  and  pale 
form  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  calls  out,  "  Father,  father  ! 
Do  you  know  what  time  it  is  ? " 


LYMAN  BEECHER.  405 

"  Well,  Taylor,  stick  a  pin  there,  and  we  '11  go  on  to- 
morrow." 

The  amount  of  truth  got  out  —  if  all  was  true  that 
each  thought  to  be  so  —  can  never  be  known,  but  must 
have  b^pn  immense.  Yet  it  seemed  difficult  to  reduce 
to  record  these  surprising  discoveries.  On  one  occasion 
the  topic  of  debate  was  the  Will.  The  next  forenoon  Dr. 
Beecher  spent  a  considerable  time  in  making  an  "  exact 
statement "  on  this  topic.  After  he  left,  we  looked  into 
his  blank-book,  and  saw  a  page  with  at  least  twenty 
paragraphs  begun  and  struck  out.    Thus,  — 

"  In  considering  the  human  will"  —  a  pen  was  struck 
through  that,  and  again  he  started,  —  "No  theory  of  the 
will  is  valid  "  —  pausing  unsatisfied.  That,  too,  was 
dashed  out ;  and  then  two  or  three  times  over  he  got 
only  as  far  as  " The  will "  —  "A  definition  of  the  will " ; 
and  finally,  after  many  modifications  and  partial  sen- 
tences, the  last  entry  made  was, "  The  will  is  — "  What 
the  will  was  to  have  been  shown  to  be  we  shall  never 
know. 

But  the  benefit  of  this  practice  on  infinite  themes, 
and  of  this  intense  conviction  of  the  truth  of  specula- 
tions, is  not  to  be  estimated  by  the  immediate  products, 
but  by  its  reflex  influence  on  the  soul  and  reason.  When 
these  men  handled  the  great  themes  of  truth,  there  was 
a  scale  of  sublimity  and  an  invisible  force  to  their  rea- 
soning, which  no  one  could  have  had  but  they  that 
dwelt  much  in  the  higher  moods  of  mind  and  in  the 
great,  invisible  realm  of  faith  ! 

There  they  lie.    The  grass  grows  green,  violets  and 


i 


406 


LYMAN  BEECHER. 


myrtle-vine  blooms  are  shining  this  day  blue  on  the 
grass.  Little  birds  come  and  sit  on  the  monuments 
and  dress  their  feathers,  sing  a  single  strain,  and  fly 
off.  What  do  the  birds  know  of  the  great  names  that 
lie  asleep  below  them  ?  And  are  men  on  this  ^trth  so 
different  from  the  birds  ?  We  flit  hither  and  thither  on 
this  monumental  globe,  and  hardly  dream  of  the  history 
that  is  under  our  feet,  or  of  the  thoughts  of  God,  of  which 
this  earth  is  but  a  mighty  incarnation  ! 

Largely  engaged  during  his  lifetime  in  controversy,  it 
was  the  popular  impression  that  Dr.  Beecher  was  a  stern 
warrior.  His  personal  appearance  favored  the  idea.  And 
no  one  ever  heard  him  in  his  prime  and  in  his  best  moods 
but  felt  that  he  was  a  master  in  discourse.  Yet  a  more 
simple-minded  and  child-like  nature  fiever  lived.  When 
in  hours  of  transfiguration  his  heart  revealed  the  tender- 
ness of  his  love,  it  was  almost  like  opening  a  window  in 
heaven.  With  his  children  he  was  sportive  to  frolic- 
someness.  Down  on  his  hands  and  knees  he  has  given 
us  many  a  ride ;  and  great  has  been  our  exultation,  when, 
after  a  prodigious  show  of  wrestling,  we  flung  him  full 
length  upon  the  grass.  The  faint  suspicion  that  "  he  let 
us  do  it "  did  not,  on  the  whole,  dispel  the  illusion  of 
victory. 

As  we  grew  up,  nothing  that  ever  he  said  impressed 
us  so  much  as  all  that  which  we  silently  saw.  When 
the  winter  was  severe,  and  the  storm  was  high,  the  un- 
shrinking promptness  with  which  he  ventured  forth, 
night  or  day,  to  some  distant  appointment,  inspired  in 
our  young  souls  a  contempt  of  danger,  and  a  feeling  that 


LYMAN  BEECHER. 


407 


a  resolute  courage  was  more  than  a  match  for  nature  in 
her  scowls  and  threats.  Although  his  name  was  much 
on  men's  tongues,  and  much  printed,  his  unfeigned  mod- 
esty was  striking.  We  never  heard  a  single  boast.  Even 
when  jiet  quite  young,  we  were  impressed  with  a  certain 
bashfulness  and  timidity  with  which  he  recounted  his 
own  adventures. 

We  never  saw  either  anger  or  impatience  under  abuse 
or  obloquy.  Artless  and  simple-hearted,  he  had  a  natu- 
ral insight  into  men,  and  was  seldom  deceived  in  his 
judgment. 

Looking  back  upon  that  inside  life,  when  men's  uncon- 
scious acts  reveal  their  true  nature,  we  see  his  example 
to  have  been  one  which  inspired  faith  in  manhood,  in 
disinterested  affection,  and  unfeigned  piety.  He  seemed 
to  those  without  a  good  and  true  man,  but  he  was  better 
than  he  seemed. 

Sleep  on,  great  hearts  !  Side  by  side  ye  were  in  life, 
side  by  side  ye  are  in  slumber,  side  by  side  ye  shall  be 
in  the  glory  of  immortality  ! 


XI 

BIRD-SINGING. 

I 

June,  1870. 

People  who  have  been  born  and  bred  in  the  city  know 
nothing  of  bird-song,  except  as  they  hear  canaries  or 
other  feathered  prisoners,  who  sing  for  a  living,  sing 
from  cages.  This,  indeed,  is  not  to  b£  despised,  but  it 
is  notthe  singing  of  free  wild  birds. 

Even  those  who  live  in  the  country  seldom  hear  birds 
sing  at  their  best.  People  are  in  bed  when  the  great 
concert  comes  off.  During  May  and  J une,  birds  wake 
about  half-past  three  to  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Even  if  one  goes  to  sleep  again,  it  is  worth  his  while  to 
be  awakened  to  hear  this  wonderful  outburst.  There  is 
nothing  else  in  all  the  common  phenomena  of  nature  that 
seems  so  admirable  and  so  increasingly  interesting  as  this. 

Birds  do  not  sing  alike  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  An 
attentive  ear  will  notice,  not  only  very  different  strains, 
but  a  very  different  spirit.  The  midday  singing  is  cas- 
ual, not  prolonged, —  a  mere  interjection  here^nd  there. 
They  sing,  as  it  were,  to  while  away  a  little  time.  At 
evening,  birds  sing  next  in  duration  and  effect  to  the 
morning  song,  but  more  tender,  less  tumultuous.  It  is 
in  the  morning  that  one  must  hear  them  who  would 
know  the  full  ecstacy. 

It  is  very  still.  The  dew  lies  heavy  on  all  things.  In 
the  east  the  light  is  coming  fast,  and  twilight  every  mo- 


BIRD  SINGING. 


409 


ment  gains  new  radiance.    Not  a  sound  gives  warning 
of  any  coming  song.    Far  off  one  hears  the  hoarse  hawk 
of  a  goose,  or  the  bark  of  a  dog  disturbed  by  some  early 
traveler.     Then  one  hears  a  single  call-note,  as  if  the 
chorister  were  calling  attention  and  giving  out  the  pitch. 
It  is  answered  in  an  inquiring  way  by  another  bird,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  We  are  all  ready,  shall  we  begin  ? " 
Then  one  launches  out,  but  has  not  uttered  two  syllables 
before  a  score  of  birds  strike  in,  and  then,  from  the  fields, 
the  forest  edges,  from  orchards  and  gardens,  from  the 
ground,  the  fences,  and  the  air,  there  comes  such  a  Ba- 
bel of  sweet  sounds,  running  into  each  other,  clashing, 
overlaying,  and  surging  together,  that  one  cannot  distin- 
guish any  single  songster  note,  but  only  a  wild  min- 
gling of  hundreds  of  birds,  all  singing  at  the  very  top 
of  their  power,  as  if  fired  by  an  ecstasy  of  gladness. 
This  great  gush  of  song  lasts  from  twenty  minutes  to 
half  an  hour,  and  then  ceases  almost  as  simultaneously 
as  it  began.    The  birds  seem  then  to  occupy  themselves 
with  their  toilet  and  breakfast.    After  which,  but  in  a 
far  less  general  way,  they  sing  again  off  and  on  for  an 
hour  or  two.   Then  they  scatter,  and  pursue  the  regular 
business  of  the  day,  singing  but  little  until  toward 
evening,  unless  the  day  be  clouded.    If  the  morning  is 
overcast,  birds  do  not  have  their  grand  sing ;  but  if  on 
such  days  the  noon  be  clear,  or  tending  to  clear  up,  birds 
become  quite  vocal.    Sunlight  has  much  to  do  with 
their  disposition  to  sing,  and  the  electrical  condition 
of  the  atmosphere,  it  is  probable,  has  some  effect  on  this 
morning  inspiration. 

18 

s 


410 


BIRD  SINGING. 


While  it  is  true  that  all  song-birds  have  their  greatest 
impulse  of  song  at  morning  and  evening,  there  is  a  great 
difference  among  birds  as  to  intermediate  hours.  The 
meadow-lark,  the  bobolink,  the  field-sparrow,  song-spar- 
row, linnets,  and  finches  sing  far  more  frequently  dur- 
ing the  day  than  do  many  others. 

The  minor  and  domestic  notes  of  birds  are  full  as  no- 
ticeable, though  perhaps  not  as  pleasurable,  as  their  true 
song.  If  one  will  wander  into  the  fields,  and  hide  him- 
self on  the  edge  of  an  open  forest,  or  along  walls  well 
fringed  with  shrubs  and  vines,  or  in  garden  or  orchard 
where  birds  resort,  he  will  have  an  opportunity  of  hear- 
ing many  conversations  which,  if  he  could  interpret  them, 
would  show  what  is  going  on  in  birds'  minds.  There  are 
low  notes  of  various  kinds  that  are  to  birds  what  con- 
versation is  to  men ;  there  are  expressions  of  fondness, 
of  caution,  and  of  alarm ;  there  are  call-notes,  notes  of 
curiosity,  coaxing  notes,  notes  of  aversion,  of  fear,  and 
of  displeasure.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  birds 
communicate  connected  ideas,  as  men  do ;  but  that  their 
feelings  and  wishes  are  communicated  by  sounds,  there 
can  be  no  doubt.  It  is  an  inarticulate  and  interjectional 
language,  and  not  at  all  to  be  confounded  with  song. 

The  tendency  to  express  inward  states  of  feeling  is 
clearly  discernible  among  birds  and  animals  ;  and  al- 
though it  is  the  merest  rudiment,  it  seems  like  the 
undeveloped  germ  of  that  which  has  grown  to  vast  pro- 
portions in  the  human  race. 

Those  who  go  from  the  city  to  the  country  only  to  es- 
cape heat  and  effluvia,  may  well  delay  till  July.  But 


BIRD  SINGING. 


411 


those  who  go  there  to  enjoy  the  genial  influences  of 
nature  should  try  mid-May.  From  May  till  the  middle 
of  July  is  the  period  of  greatest  beauty  of  life.  From 
mid-July  till  the  middle  or  last  of  September,  heat  rages, 
and  all  things  grow  ripe ;  but  tenderness,  sweetness,  and 
beauty,  together  with  songs  of  birds,  are  gone.  Only 
insects  sing  in  August  heats.  Then  come  October  and 
half  of  November,  — in  our  latitude  the  glory  and  crown 
of  Autumn.  May  and  June,  October  and  November: 
these  are  the  glory  of  the  year  ! 


3. 


xn. 

SUDDEN  DEATH. 

June,  1870. 

No  one  who  has  read  the  dreary  close  of  Walter 
Scott's  life,  as  depicted  by  Lockhart,  but  must  feel  grate- 
ful that  Charles  Dickens  died  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of 
work,  without  having  yet  tasted  the  humiliations  of 
slow  decline.  There  were,  it  is  true,  abundant  intima- 
tions that  he  had  seen  his  best  days,  and  performed  his 
best  work.  They  were  as  yet  but  intimations.  From 
this  time  forward  we  should  have  seen  the  steps  of  de- 
cline. Part  after  part  would  have  been  broken  off.  Life 
would  have  given  up,  one  after  another,  the  great,  out- 
stretching branches,  retreating  every  year  toward  the 
enfeebled  top,  until  at  length  some  single  bough  would 
nourish  a  few  green  leaves  like  a  funeral  lamp  in  the 
midst  of  dry  and  dead  memorials  of  its  past  life  ! 

Dickens  has  been  a  child  of  good  fortune  through  his 
whole  life.  He  has  been  cherished  with  an  unabated 
admiration  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  —  an  admiration 
which  had  in  it  not  a  little  personal  affection. 

Thackeray,  Hawthorne,  and  Dickens  each  died  while 
at  work,  and  left  behind  an  uncompleted  book.  To  die 
upon  the  field  of  battle,  and  in  the  hour  of  victory,  has 
always  been  esteemed  a  crowning  good  fortune. 

It  is  painful  to  be  obliged  to  veil  over  and  hide  from 
our  thoughts  the  slow  decays  and  weaknesses  of  age. 


SUDDEN  DEATH 


413 


The  imagination  is  obliged  to  practice  upon  itself,  to 
separate  the  man  from  himself,  to  think  only  of  the  vig- 
orous Scott,  and  to  forget  the  sad  and  venerable  imbe- 
cile, slowly  feeling  after  death  through  so  many  years. 

Sudden  death,  in  full  possession  of  reason  and  of  execu- 
tive force,  is  a  divine  mercy  to  all  who,  as  leaders,  have 
commanded  the  minds  of  men,  and  walked  at  the  head 
of  their  fellows.  Men  that  came  into  bearing  late  in 
life  may  last  late,  but  those  who  were  fruitful  early,  and 
who  have  been  prolific,  must  look  for  barren  years  at 
the  end.  Our  years  are  in  the  Lord's  hand.  All  seasons 
are  his.  If  it  be  his  will  that  we  should  molder  and 
decay,  in  the  sad  twilight  of  old  age  too  far  prolonged, 
we  should  accept  his  purpose,  even  as  we  would  accept 
prisons  and  bonds  for  Christ's  sake.  But  prisons  and 
bonds  are  never  to  be  desired  for  their  own  sake. 

To  one  who  is  living  aright  no  death  can  be  sudden 
and  no  place  unfavorable.  Whether  one  goes  up  out  of 
a  banquet,  or  from  among  innocent  amusements,  or  from 
his  couch,  it  matters  little  if  only  he  has  the  passport 
of  faith.  One  step,  and  all  roads  meet;  and  a  great 
host  of  departing  spirits,  forgetful  of  limitations,  of 
earthly  conditions,  feel  the  great  attraction  and  fly  up- 
ward, to  be  forever  with  the  Lord. 


v 


v 


XIII. 


A  HEART  IN  LITTLE  THINGS. 

July,  1870. 

The  strong  are  to  bear  with  the  weak.  But  it  is  not 
probable  that  one  can  bear  with  another  unless  there  is 
some  degree  of  sympathy ;  if  not  a  common  feeling,  at 
least  a  common  understanding.  It  is  a  lack  of  this  in- 
sight and  feeling  of  another's  condition  and  necessities 
that  makes  men  in  vigorous  health  impatient  of  the 
ways  of  invalids.  Eobust  natures  are  likely  to  be  un- 
kind to  feeble  ones,  either  by  neglecting  them,  or,  by 
severely  blaming  them,  or  by  exposing  their  peculiarities 
to  ridicule.  In  nothing  is  this  more  apparent  than  in 
the  contempt  expressed,  by  men  of  health  and  occupa- 
tion, at  the  enjoyment  of  little  things  by  those  who  have 
no  great  things  to  enjoy.  It  is  all  very  well  for  those 
who  have  excitement  more  than  they  want,  and  in  all 
varieties,  who  move  from  place  to  place,  see  new  faces, 
breathe  new  air,  meet  endless  novelties  of  life  among 
men,  to  exhort  others  to  employ  their  time  in  some- 
thing worthy  of  themselves ;  but  perhaps  half  of  man- 
kind must  extract  their  amusement  from  little  things,  if 
they  obtain  amusement  at  all ! 

How  many  are  anchored  by  poverty  to  one  place, 
made  to  go  round  and  round  every  day  over  a  barren 
ground  of  duty  without  excitement  or  pleasure !  How 
many  are  confined  for  months  to  a  single  room,  and  even 


A  HEART  IN  LITTLE  THINGS. 


415 


to  the  bed,  without  health  or  strength  to  relieve  them- 
selves by  occupation  !  How  many  are  unable  to  read, 
from  defect  of  vision,  or  from  want  of  books !  How 
many  are  living  ad  interim,  as  it  were,  waiting  for  some 
outlet,  and  waiting  for  weeks  and  months  !  How  many 
children  there  are  ;  and  how  many  old  people,  from  whose 
hands  have  fallen  the  business  of  life,  and  who  have 
that  greatest  of  afflictions,  nothing  to  do  !  But,  even  in 
the  life  of  busy  people,  how  many  vacant  hours  there 
are  in  summer,  in  vacations,  or  during  interruptions  and 
periods  of  painful  waiting  ! 

It  is  to  all  such  a  matter  of  supreme  importance  that 
they  should  be  able  to  make  much  of  little  things,  and 
it  is  a  peculiar  misfortune  to  be  either  so  unimpressible, 
or*so  stupidly  grand,  that  nothing  can  amuse,  unless  it 
has  some  proper  tone  of  dignity,  or  some  quality  of  use- 
fulness. 

For  a  man  in  vigorous  pursuit  of  business  to  drop  his 
affairs  that  he  may  watch  a  fly,  or  observe  the  motions 
of  a  worm,  or  count  the  cracks  in  a  ceiling,  or  weave 
fanciful  figures  from  the  lines  of  wall  paper,  or  paint 
pictures  on  the  coals,  or  in  the  ashes,  may  be  foolish 
enough ;  but  for  the  same  man  to  do  it  in  hours  of  fee- 
bleness, or  when  interrupted  in  business,  is  another 
thing.  Anything  is  wise  and  useful  that  shall  keep  our 
thoughts  quietly  busy  with  outward  things.  Thoughts 
that  strike  in'  are  full  of  mischief.  They  gnaw  at  our 
heart.  They  breed  sorrow  and  sickness.  Man  is  the 
highest  study  of  man,  doubtless ;  but  each  one  had  bet- 
ter study  some  other  man. 


416 


A  HEART  IN  LITTLE  THINGS. 


In  the  art  of  elegant  leisure,  and  in  the  art  of  wise 
trifling,  our  people  are  sadly  deficient.  We  are  bred  to 
business.  We  are  tempered  to  high  excitements.  We 
hardly  know  what  to  do  with  tranquility.  We  begin  to 
contrive  how  to  make  it  exciting.  We  long  to  make 
silence  talk.  We  stir  up  quietness  till  we  get  a  glow 
upon  it.  We  are  forever  "  getting  up  "  something  for 
vacation  amusements.  It  is  riding,  or  rowing,  or  picnic- 
ing,  or  some  excursion,  with  its  fringe  and  frill  of  ex- 
citement. We  have  rest  in  a  whirl,  and  tranquility  in 
a  buzz.  We  want  a  friend  or  two  in  our  solitude  to 
take  off  its  solitariness. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  exquisite  enjoyment  in  sim- 
ple consciousness  of  existence.  But  few  have  either  the 
perfect  health  or  the  sweetness  of  soul  which  this  de- 
mands. Yet  if  that  much-neglected  and  much-abused 
faculty  of  Imagination  were  trained  from  youth  to  clothe 
common  life  with  charms,  how  few  would  be  without 
amusement,  even  in  the  most  straightened  circumstances ! 
Nature  is  full  of  light  and  motion,  and  sounds  and 
colors  ;  but  men  do  not  enjoy  these  things.  Nature  is 
full  of  mimic  life,  and  that  life  is  full  of  strifes,  pur- 
suits, battles,  peace,  amity,  and  affection ;  but  then  men 
do  not  care  for  insect  life.  Nature  is  full  of  grace  and 
charming  variety,  of  hue  and  shape,  of  contrast  and 
analogy,  in  her  mineral  garden ;  but  then  men  do  not 
care  for  mineralogy  and  geology. 

So,  then,  the  great  theater  is  open,  its  scenes  are 
shifted  every  hour,  its  actors  are  innumerable  and  inim- 
itable, its  orchestra  full  and  tuneful ;  but  men,  "  having 


A  HEART  IN  LITTLE  THINGS. 


417 


eyes  see  not,  and  ears  hear  not."  They  yawn  and  stretch, 
and  wish  they  had  something  to  do. 

To  make  much  of  little,  to  find  reasons  of  interest  in 
common  things,  to  develop  a  sensibility  to  mild  enjoy- 
ments, to  inspire  the  imagination,  to  throw  a  charm  upon 
homely  and  familiar  things,  will  constitute  a  man  mas- 
ter of  his  own  happiness.  How  interesting  trifles  may 
become,  one  may  see  by  reading  Cowper's  letters ;  which, 
for  simple  beauty,  have  never  been  surpassed  in  English 
epistolary  literature.  How  a  nature  profoundly  religious 
may  yet  be  filled  with  satisfaction  in  minute  duties  and 
homely  experiences,  one  may  read  in  the  letters  and 
journey ings  of  Eugenie  de  Guerin. 


18*  ;  A  A 


XIV 


NOVEMBER  DAYS. 

November,  1870. 

November  days  are  fine  for  those  who  really  love 
country-life.  To  be  sure,  November  sometimes  is  surly 
and  cold ;  but  in  this  latitude  it  is  far  oftener  a  bright, 
bracing,  wholesome  month.  There  is  a  world  of  garden- 
ing in  it.  He  is  not  half  a  gardener  who  enjoys  only 
flowers,  but  not  the  work  which  produces  them.  Novem- 
ber is  a  rare  month  for  work.  If  bulbs  are  not  yet 
planted,  they  soon  will  be,  of  course ;  and  then  comes 
the  trimming  of  grape-vines,  the  transplanting  of  shrub- 
bery, trees,  etc.  Many  of  the  beds  for  next  year's  opera- 
tions may  be  prepared  now,  and  save  time  when  the 
spring  hurry  comes  on.  A  lover  of  trees  will  not  desert 
them  when  the  leaves  do.  Many  trees  do  not  lose  but 
only  change  the  form  of  their  beauty  in  winter.  Now 
come  out  the  brilliant  colors  on  the  bark  of  the  red- 
twigged  dogwood  ;  many  of  the  willows  glow  with  golden 
skins ;  the  dark  green  of  the  bark  of  the  Sophora  japonica 
is  never  seen  to  advantage  till  the  leaves  fall. 

And  the  leaves  !  Is  there  not  sport  among  them  ? 
The  other  day  we  sat  at  the  window  on  the  hill-side,  to 
see  how  they  carried  on.  The  wind  was  high,  but  came 
off  intermittingly  with  great  blows,  and  then,  lulling,  it 
fell  away  almost  to  a  calm.  As  it  began  to  breathe,  a 
few  of  the  more  nimble  leaves  with  which  the  ground 


NOVEMBER  DAYS. 


419 


was  covered,  yellow  maple-leaves,  sprung  up  with  the 
air  and  went  frisking  across  the  town ;  more  and  more 
followed  as  the  wind  increased,  till,  upon  some  royal 
puff,  all  the  crowd  went  rushing  by  pell-mell,  whirling, 
rolling  over  and  over,  as  if  they  were  utterly  at  their 
wits'  ends  how  to  get  along  fast  enough  for  the  occasion. 
And  yet,  down  drops  the  wind,  and  down  drops  the 
leaves.  Then,  whirling  around  the  house,  came  a  blast 
from  the  opposite  direction,  —  a  kind  of  eddy  settling  in 
from  between  the  barn  and  cottage,  —  and  the  leaves, 
caught  unawares,  sprang  up  again,  and  rushed  back  again 
over  the  same  ground  that  had  seen  them  advance. 

All  the  day  they  played  capricious  capers,  some  leap- 
ing out  and  nestling  under  banks,  or  hiding  in  shrubbery, 
or  getting  under  evergreens.  It  needed  but  little  effort 
to  fancy  them  to  be  birds  pursued  by  hawks  ;  or  an  army 
going  to  a  grand  mustering  ground,  or  rolling  back  in  de- 
feat ;  or  sprites  out  on  wdndy  revels.  This  race  of  the 
leaves  is  a  prime  enjoyment  of  November,  and  not  to  be 
neglected  by  any  who  enjoy  races. 

Nature  comes  home  to  us  in  these  brilliant  November 
days,  —  sometimes  a  little  too  closely ;  as  when  one,  on 
retiring,  finds  a  wasp  making  over  his  pillow.  There  are 
a  hundred  reasons  why  a  man  should  be  lively  when 
he  finds  a  wasp  in  bed  with  him,  —  though  it  may  be 
doubted  if  he  ever  stops  to  count  or  weigh  the  reasons. 
Wasps  are  good  in  their  place,  but  familiarity  breeds  — 
nimbleness,  if  not  contempt.  They  have  a  way  of  bring- 
ing things  to  a  point  which  quickens  all  human  wits. 
Wasps  would  better  board  by  themselves.    They  are 


420 


NOVEMBER  DAYS. 


not  wholesome  bed-fellows.  Yet  they  might  do  worse. 
They  do  worse,  —  as  when  one  wakes  to  the  awful 
consciousness  that  a  wasp  is  exploring  his  pantaloons ! 
Do  not  smile.  Did  you  ever  have  the  conviction  of  his 
presence  flash  on  you  ?  Did  you  ever  stand  petrified, 
afraid  to  stir,  lest  he  should  begin  upon  you  a  series 
of  surgical  operations  not  laid  down  in  the  book  ?  If 
not,  you  have  no  right  to  speak  on  the  subject.  A 
wasp  under  one's  clothes,  or  an  earthquake  outside  of 
them :  which  is  worse  ?  For  ludicrous  fright,  for  absurd 
helplessness,  for  anger  and  fear  in  ridiculous  mixture, 
the  wasp  is  far  ahead  of  the  earthquake,  as  a  producer. 
There  is  but  one  thing  worse  than  such  an  enfolded 
wasp ;  and  that  is  to  think  that  there  is  one  when  there 
is  not  any,  and  to  go  through  all  the  ecstatic  evolutions, 
until  it  comes  out  that  it  was  only  a  bit  of  hay  (?)  that 
tickled  you  ! 

November  woods  are  grand.  The  ground  is  covered 
with  musical  leaves  that  rustle  around  your  feet.  Now 
squirrels  are  merry.  The  blue-jay  is  on  hand  in  all  his 
glory  of  plumage  and  harshness  of  song.  The  mosses 
on  trees,  or  in  moist  nooks  along  the  ground,  or  on  de- 
cayed logs,  look  as  though  they  meant  to  defy  the  winter, 
and  carry  greenness  and  fresh  growth  through  the  year. 
Now  that  the  leaves  are  gone,  new  vistas  open  through 
the  woods,  and  familiar  places  seem  endowed  with  new 
attributes.  Long  walks  are  in  order.  No  one  is  so  in- 
dependent as  he  whose  feet  are  strong  and  willing  all 
day,  and  who  can  ramble,  without  asking  leave  of  roads 
or  paths  whithersoever  his  fancy  leads  him  ! 


NOVEMBER  DAYS. 


421 


There  is  an  exquisite  sadness,  too,  which  enhances  the 
flavor  of  November  days.  Sadness  is  but  the  minor  key 
of  joy.  And  one  loves  to  look  upon  the  fading  year,  to 
trace  to  their  haunts  the  busy  throngs  of  insects  and 
animals  that  are  preparing  for  winter.  As  in  spring  all 
things  are  coming,  so  in  autumn  all  things  are  going, 
but  not  to  annihilation.  They  will  rest,  but  they  will 
rise  again ! 

Every  one  for  himself,  and  out  of  his  own  experiences, 
will  fashion  emblems  from  the  appearances  of  nature, 
and  will  find  analogies  which  seem  to  join  his  life  to 
the  great  world  in  which  he  lives,  and  make  the  pro- 
cesses of  nature  an  interpretation,  or  a  prophecy,  of 
man's  life. 


XV. 


A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 

December ,  1870. 

Blow,  winter  wind !  Shake  the  house  and  rattle  the 
windows,  roar  in  the  chimneys,  and  send  sheets  of  flame 
wavering  upward  in  the  fireplace,  and  hurry  away,  bear- 
ing all  over  the  land  on  your  strong  and  free  wings  a 
greeting  of  Merry  Christmas  to  all  our  readers  ! 

Where  the  happy  circle  gathers  close  in  the  firelight, 
where  the  little  ones  cling  about  mothers'  knees,  where 
patient  love  watches  by  the  invalid's  bedside,  where  the 
student  sits  in  his  solitary  room,  where  toil  snatches  but 
a  few  precious  hours  of  holiday,  —  into  all  such  places 
would  we  send  a  cheery  voice  of  "  God  be  with  you  ! " 

Christmas  is  here,  —  the  birthday  of  hope,  the  day  that 
speaks  of  the  common  Brotherhood  and  the  common 
Fatherhood.  For  us,  dear  friends,  the  Lord  has  come ! 
To  our  side,  on  the  green  or  barren  path  of  life,  comes 
One  all-glorious,  majestic  in  goodness,  tender  in  love ! 
We  walk  in  his  smile,  though  it  be  unseen ;  his  hand 
upholds  us  when  need  is  sorest ;  his  promise  grows  each 
hour  towards  its  perfect  fulfillment.  Is  it  not  well  for 
us  to  rejoice,  to  be  jubilant,  to  let  gladness  overflow  in 
song  and  shout  and  laugh  ?  This  is  the  promise-day  of 
the  year ;  to-day  the  clouds  break  and  lift,  and  lo,  al- 
most heeding  it  not,  we  are  journeying  towards  a  heav- 
enly city  ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 


423 


The  song  of  the  angels  above  Bethlehem  was  caught 
up  on  earth,  and  has  never  ceased.  Yearly  its  burden 
swells  and  mounts  heavenward  from  a  vaster  host,  and 
to-day  millions  of  hearts  are  singing  "  Glory  to  God  in 
the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace,  good- will  toward  men!" 

Happiness  be  with  all  to  whom  our  words  come  on 
this  bright  and  blessed  day !  Our  thoughts  reach  out 
among  the  multitude  to  whom  we  speak,  and  we  would 
give  each  class  a  special  benediction. 

Blessed.be  ye,  0  stiff  and  true-blue  guardians  of  ortho- 
doxy, who  frown  and  call  us  lax  of  doctrine,  dangerous 
guides,  —  yet,  somehow,  take  our  paper,  because  "  the 
family  like  to  see  it,"  and  yield  a  half-reluctant,  half- 
curious  ear,  and,  protesting  still,  partly  enjoy  !  Blessed 
be  your  zeal,  your  fidelity,  your  grit !  Like  us  or  not, 
we  like  you ;  stanch  fellow-soldiers  are  you,  and  woe 
to  the  emissaries  of  Satan  that  come  under  your  fire. 
Would  that  we  could  give  you  each  as  Christmas-present 
a  pair  of  first-class  spectacles,  gold-bowed  and  strong- 
lensed,  whereby  to  always  distinguish  friends  from  foes. 
And  with  all  our  heart  a  benediction  on  those  that  give 
us  hearty  welcome,  and  love  the  Christian  Union.  The 
bond  of  love  between  them  and  us  is  stronger  than  one 
of  taste  or  fancy.  Some  deep  sympathy,  we  hope, — some 
great  common  longing  for  love  and  light,  for  the  truth, 
for  Christian  fellowship,  for  human  brotherhood,  for  the 
coming  of  Christ's  kingdom,  —  binds  us  with  thousands 
and  ten  thousands,  unseen  and  never  to  be  seen  on  earth. 
In  the  thought  of  that  great,  invisible  company,  of  their 
support  and  sympathy,  do  we  find  courage  and  good  cheer 


424 


A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 


for  our  work.  To  each  of  them,  in  their  work,  in  their 
plans  and  hopes  and  efforts,  may  there  be  success  and 

And  a  blessing  on  those  too  young  and  light-hearted 
to  fully  know  what  toil  and  struggle  are,  —  blessed  be 
the  children,  little  and  big,  the  shouting  school-boys, 
the  romping  school-girls,  the  shy  little  flowers,  and  the 
unconscious  babies  !  May  they  grow  up  in  fresh  air  and 
sunlight,  unhurt  and  pure,  into  the  strength  and  joy  of 
manhood  and  womanhood  ! 

But  why  should  we  try  to  find  out  in  words  each 
special  class  to  whom  we  would  send  a  Merry  Christmas  ? 

"We  wish  one  to  everybody, — to  President  Grant,  who, 
perhaps,  does  not  read  us,  and  to  the  little  boot-blacks 
who  certainly  don't ;  to  grandma  quietly  reading  her 
Bible,  and  to  Bridget  cooking  the  Christmas  dinner ;  to 
happy  lovers,  and  to  married  lovers,  who  are  happiest  of 
all ;  to  women  in  lonely  farm-houses,  and  to  men  in 
the  whirl  of  Wall  Street;  to  Eadicals  and  Eoman 
Catholics,  to  Democrats  and  Eepublicans ;  in  fine,  to 
the  present  generation,  to  posterity,  and,  if  it  will  have 
our  good  word,  to  antiquity.  Take  the  greeting,  roaring- 
winter  wind,  and  carry  it  far  over  soughing  forest  and 
seething  sea.  A  million  such  voices  are  abroad ;  through- 
out all  Christendom,  over  all  the  world,  men  to-day  re- 
member the  "Glad  Tidings,"  and  joyfully  bid  each  other 
a  Merry  Christmas  ! 


XVI. 


SPRING  IS  COMING. 

March,  1871. 

SPRING  is  coming !  The  air  is  full  of  signs.  Yester- 
day I  received  a  letter  from  Florida,  in  answer  to  some 
inquiries,  saying  that  it  was  too  late  to  set  out  orange- 
trees  this  season !  I  looked  out  of  my  window,  and  ice 
and  snow  were  piled  up  a  foot  deep  before  my  door. 
Too  late  to  set  out  trees  anywhere  in  these  United 
States  on  the  Atlantic  coast  ?  Well,  if  Spring  has  once 
got  her  rosy  foot  into  the  Union,  I  know  the  rest  of  it. 
She  is  an  enticing  goddess.  She  wooes  with  a  warm 
touch  and  perfumed  breath.  She  will  steal  along,  by 
night  and  by  day,  whispering  to  the  buds,  and  awaking 
the  buried  roots,  causing  such  joy  that  all  things  will 
come  forth  to  look  upon  her. 

On  the  very  day  that  I  read  this  letter  from  Florida, 
my  mocking-bird,  hanging  in  the  dining-room,  began  to 
sing  for  the  first  time  since  last  summer's  molt.  He 
evidently  heard  the  letter.  In  his  imagination  he  saw 
the  woods  from  whence  he  came,  and  heard  his  relatives 
in  full  chant  of  spring  songs.  The  long  silence  gave 
way,  and  he  poured  forth  his  old  mixed  and  fantastic 
song,  though  in  a  subdued  and  softened  manner,  for  he 
could  not  help  seeing  the  ice  and  snow  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Birds  sing  best  among  green  leaves  and  springing 
grass  and  buds  opening  with  the  sweet  odors  of  the 


426  SPRING  IS  COMING. 

woods  upon  them.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  good  begin- 
ning. It  was  a  prophet's  voice !  All  did  not  hear  its 
secret  message,  but  I  did.  A  bird  singing  in  the  face  of 
winter  is  a  voice  of  God  inspiring  hope.  Down  fell  the 
slumberous  flakes  of  snow  through  the  chilly  air,  aim- 
less, noiseless,  unguided.  Up  through  the  flakes  of  snow 
rang  the  voice  of  my  bird,  crying  out  to  its  far-off  fel- 
lows in  the  Southern  woods  !  The  winter  is  over ;  the 
time  of  the  singing  of  birds  has  come  ! 

These  are  not  the  only  signs.  My  watch  says  the  sun 
has  more  business  in  the  North  than  he  had  last  Decem- 
ber, and  that  it  takes  him  some  hours  to  do  it.  Yes  : 
I  watch  the  golden  mark  that  he  makes  along  the  wall 
in  the  afternoon,  and  see  how  changed  is  the  path  of 
light  since  I  last  marked  the  wall. 

But  far  more  significant  is  the  sign  of  the  catalogue ! 
Have  I  not  collected  a  goodly  heap  of  seed  and  flower 
catalogues  before  me  ?  Does  not  my  heart  yearn  toward 
them  ?  Are  they  not  gardens  of  the  imagination  ?  I 
enter  in  and  walk  in  familiar  places.  I  plant,  I  weed,  I 
water,  I  pluck,  I  rage  at  the  insects.  The  sun  grows 
hot;  I  every  day  do  less.  Lazy  at  length,  positively 
lazy !  Long  days,  dreamy  skies,  vocal  fields ;  the  garden 
getting  tangled  and  neglected,  yet  gorgeous  with  spring- 
fed  flowers,  which  no  neglect  can  now  keep  from  grow- 
ing and  glowing  till  the  frosts  come.  I  start.  There 
lie  the  catalogues.  It  was  only  a  vision ;  but  as  a  dream 
it  was  prophetic. 

The  twenty-eighth  of  February.  What  chance  has 
winter  to  prop  its  falling  fortunes.    The  ground  is  slid- 


SPRING  IS  COMING. 


427 


ins  out  from  under  our  feet.  Those  robustious  winds  of 
March  will  be  put  forth  merely  for  appearance'  sake,  — 
the  desperate  expedient  of  a  bankrupt  winter  to  keep  up 
a  good  face,  lest  its  creditors  should  pounce  upon  it,  and 
seize  all  its  goods.  The  device  will  fail.  It  has  been 
tried  a  hundred  times,  and  every  time  winter  broke 
down. 

When  Northern  winds  blow  let  all  the  Southern  birds 
sing!  When  late  snows  drowse  through  the  air,  let  all 
the  birds  clap  their  wings  and  plume  their  feathers.  It 
is  the  old  battle  of  the  birds  against  the  winds.  Last 
autumn,  birds  were  driven  away  by  the  winds,  but  it 
was  not  till  they  had  forgotten  to  sing.  Prosperity  had 
made  the  birds  gross  and  songless,  and  the  winds  pre- 
vailed. But  now  it  is  spring.  The  birds  have  found 
their  voices.  They  are  coming  every  day  in  royal  array 
toward  the  North  to  avenge  themselves  upon  the  dis- 
possessing winds  that  drove  them  away.  The  battle  of 
the  birds  and  winds  !  Sing,  victorious  choirs  !  Sing  till 
nights  grow  short,  till  long  days  are  full  of  heat,  till  the 
meadows  are^  full  of  fragrance,  and  the  trees  of  blos- 
soms !  Come,  all  of  you,  and  bring  all  of  your  relations  ! 
Come,  sparrows,  bluebirds,  and  robins,  earliest  of  all 
comers  !  Come,  blackbirds,  those  with  red  epaulettes 
on  your  shoulders,  ■  and  those  without !  Come,  larks, 
woodthrushes,  bobolinks,  linnets,  nuthatches,  warblers, 
fly-catchers,  fire-birds,  and  orioles  !  Come,  hungry 
hawks,  and  solemn  old  crows,  flapping  funereal  wings  to 
keep  time  with  croaking  song !  Come,  everything  : 
flies,  and  spiders  to  eat  them ;  squirrels,  and  owls  to 


» 


428 


SPRING  IS  COMING. 


catch  them ;  worms,  and  hunting  birds  to  seize  them ! 
Wake  up,  all  beetles,  and  droning  insects,  and  fat  larvae  ! 
the  birds  are  coming,  and  you  must  get  ready  to  be 
eaten. 

And  so  the  world  rolls  on.  The  Winter  consumes  the 
Autumn,  the  Spring  devours  the  Winter,  Summer  con- 
sumes the  Spring,  and  Autumn  ransacks  the  Summer. 
Insects  are  the  food  of  birds,  and  birds  are  devoured  by 
stronger  birds  and  animals,  and  both  by  man ;  while 
Time,  the  great  destroyer,  consumes  both  man  and  beast. 
Only  God  is  young  and  unchanged.  "  Of  old  hast  Thou 
laid  the  foundation  of 'the  earth,  and  the  heavens  are  the 
work  of  Thy  hands.    They  shall  perish,'  but  Thou  shalt 

endure  As  a  vesture  shalt  Thou  change  them, 

and  they  shall  be  changed ;  but  Thou  art  the  same,  and 
Thy  years  shall  have  no  end." 


xvn. 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  TREES. 

October,  1871. 

Is  not  a  tree  a  tree  ?  By  no  means,  in  the  sense  in 
which  such  a  question  is  often  put.  A  gentleman  desires 
to  plant  shade  trees  along  the  public  highway,  or  he  has 
a  small  place  which  he  would  beautify,  or  a  large  place, 
a  portion  of  which  he  would  adorn  with  trees  and  shrubs. 
What  does  he  do  ?  He  looks  at  his  neighbors'  grounds 
and  sees  what  they  have  got.  If  they  have  horse-chest- 
nuts, he  will  have  horse-chestnuts.  If  they  have  maples, 
he  will  plant  maples.  His  chief  idea  of  a  tree  is,  that  it 
gives  shade  in  summer ;  and  when  some  person  of  more 
enlightened  taste  says,  "  What  made  you  plant  your  lawn 
with  such  trees  ? "  he  replies  :  "  Why,  I  got  them  cheap, 
and  it  does  n't  matter  much  :  a  tree  is  a  tree  anyhow." 

There  is  nothing  with  which  people  are  less  intimately 
acquainted  than  trees,  which  they  have  known  since  their 
childhood.  They  know  whether  they  are  big  or  little, 
and  that  is  about  all.  What  their  forms  are  when  young 
and  when  old ;  whether  the  lidit  is  reflected  in  masses 
of  light  and  shade,  or  in  well-defined  strata,  or  whether 
it  is  broken  up  into  endless  points,  they  have  never  ob- 
served. They  do  not  know  that  trees  have  characters; 
that  some  are  gay,  and  some  solemn  ;  some  light  and  airy, 
some  solid  and  grand;  some  domestic  and  homelike, 
some  aristocratic  and  elegant;  and  that  trees,  in  their 


430  THE  BEAUTY  OF  TREES. 

i 

forms,  colors,  foliage,  and  dendral  character,  run  through 
a  long  scale  of  variations  and  differences. 

Now,  it  is  but  a  few  trees  we  need  for  shade.  The 
others,  save  always  fruit-trees,  are  for  their  beauty.  They 
are  to  be  selected  and  put  together  for  the  sake  of  one 
hind  of  beauty  in  the  spring,  another  kind  of  beauty  in 
the  summer,  and  still  another  kind  in  autumn. 

The  true  landscape-gardener  is  an  artist  who  should 
rank  with  the  masters.  He  uses  trees  for  forms  and 
colors,  not  on  a  canvas,  but  on  the  wide  fields.  On  small 
places  he  can  do  little  :  on  large  ones  he  can  create  a 
wTork  which  should  rank  him  with  the  builders  of  tem- 
ples and  cathedrals. 

Now  is  the  time  to  study  autumnal  effects  of  trees. 
This  is  the  one  year  in  three  in  which  Nature  justifies 
the  praises  heaped  upon  her  autumn  colors.  No  terms 
can  exaggerate  the  transcendent  beauty  of  the  fields  and 
forests  in  these  dreamy  October  days.  The  hickories  are 
golden  yellow,  or  deep  brown  The  various  maples  are 
severally  yellow,  scarlet,  and  blood-red.  The  white-ash 
is  very  striking,  assuming  a  purplish  hue  which  gradually 
changes,  from  day  to  day,  to  greenish  yellow.  The  oaks 
are  turning  browTn  or  scarlet ;  while  the  beeches  do  not 
change  a  leaf,  but  hold  their  color  as  clear  and  fresh  as 
the  magnolias.  After  all,  look  at  the  sumacs,  at  the 
Stuartia,  if  you  wish  scarlet ! 

But  what  are  these  names  and  words  on  paper  ?  To 
know  this  pomp  one  should  go  into  the  fields  as  I  did 
yesterday,  and  along  a  hill-side  confront  the  eastward- 
looking  edge  of  the  forest,  and  mark  the  masses  of  green, 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  TREES. 


431 


yellow,  brown,  scarlet,  and  red,  laid  together  by  the 
chance  juxtaposition  of  the  trees,  and  yet  with  a  har- 
mony that  would  make  Titian  despair,  and  with  a  pro- 
fusion that  would  satisfy  even  Eubens.  Why,  then, 
should  not  those  who  are  beautifying  a  country  home 
take  pains  to  select  shrubs  and  trees  that  would  gratify 
the  eye  with  every  variety  in  form  and  in  foliage,  and 
wind  up  in  autumn  with  the  full  palette  of  color  ? 

Nay :  there  is,  even  in  winter,  a  great  choice  in  the 
wood-work  of  trees.  Who  ever  saw  the  English  elm 
(Ulmus  campestris)  in  January,  lifting  up  its  fine  spray 
against  a  clear  sky,  without  admiration  of  the  beauty  of 
its  structure  ?  Contrast  it  with  the  Kentucky  coffee-tree, 
the  ailantus,  or  the  Paulownia  imperialis,  whose  club- 
like limbs  in  winter  displease  the  eye. 

We  have  hardly  made  a  beginning  in  the  use  of  trees, 
for  the  production  of  pleasure  by  a  refined  exhibition  of 
beauty.  The  Central  Park,  in  New  York,  and  the  Pros- 
pect Park,  in  Brooklyn,  are  leading  the  way  to  a  new  era. 
The  day  will  come  when  even  they  will  be  regarded  as 
the  pioneers  rather  than  the  final  examples. 

* 


XVIII. 

AUTUMN  FROSTS. 

November,  1871. 

It  has  come  at  last,  —  real  frost,  with  teeth  to  it ! 
There  is  apt  to  be  a  depression  of  temperature  about  the 
middle  and  last  of  September,  which  shows  that  Nature 
is  thinking  about  frost,  and  making  little  experiments  to 
see  if  it  has  forgotten  its  winter's  skill. 

These  early  frosts  are  merely  dew  chilled  till  it  is  un- 
certain whether  to  crystalize  or  to  stay  liquid.  You  shall 
see  it  in  low  places  and  along  boards  which  bridge  gutters, 
—  a  mere  silvery  rime,  that  no  more  hurts  the  leaf  it  rests 
upon  than  sugar  does  the  surface  of  the  cake. 

But  near  the  last  of  October,  or  the  first  of  November, 
in  this  latitude,  there  comes  a  night  when  the  sentinel 
thermometer  gives  warning.  It  falls  in  the  afternoon  to 
the  forties,  and  at  dark  is  still  going  downward.  In  the 
morning  the  work  is  done  !  There  is  ice  in  the  bucket. 
The  leaves  are  stiff.  A  thin  crust  of  frozen  ground 
crackles  under  your  feet. 

When  the  sun  comes  to  look  after  its  children  in  the 
garden, —  dear  little  beauties  which  it  has  been  all  the  sea- 
son cherishing,  —  they  are  past  all  help.  The  Dahlia 
hangs  limp,  the  Heliotrope  has  blackened,  the  Convol- 
vulus is  a  sickening  mass  of  black  pulp,  the  Nasturtiums 
lie  shriveled  and  shrunk,  and  white  as  bones ! 

Is  there  any  walk  more  mournful  than,  after  a  hard 


AUTUMN  FROSTS. 


433 


frost,  a  course  about  the  garden  and  grounds  to  see  what 
has  gone  and  what  is  left  ?  We  have  been  used  all  sum- 
mer to  the  changes  of  flowers,  the  coming  and  going  of 
one  after  another,  each  fulfilling  its  natural  period,  and 
winding  up  its  little  blossom  and  seed  account  in  the 
most  systematic  way ;  but  the  frost  disaster  overtakes 
autumnal  flowers  in  their  full  career,  and  as  with  a  flame 
of  fire  consumes  their  beauty  in  a  night ! 

Only  the  tender  flowers  go  first.  The  Petunia  lifts 
up  its  head  and  shows  all  its  gay  blossoms  unhurt.  The 
Scarlet  Geranium,  with  us,  bears  quite  a  freeze  with  im- 
punity. Fall  Eoses,  Honeysuckles,  Sweet  Alyssums 
are  fresh  and  happy.    They  need  no  mittens. 

The  Chrysanthemum,  latest  child  of  Autumn,  seems 
almost  to  frolic  with  track  Frost,  as  if  it  loved,  morning 
after  morning,  to  wear  his  silver  signet  upon  its  opening 
blossoms.  But  even  it  at  last  must  succumb  ;  and  some- 
times, when  winter  comes  early,  all  its  summer  work  is 
vain,  and  it  is  cut  off  before  a  blossom  fairly  opens  ! 

There  seems  in  this  latitude  to  be  a  monthly  wrave  of 
cold  ;  a  dip  in  September,  another  in  October,  and,  after 
each,  two  or  three  weeks  of  mild  weather. 

It  is  a  little  saddening  to  have  a  month  in  which  the 
whole  garden  might  have  gone  on  growing,  with  all  its 
tassels  and  fringes,  its  cups  and  clusters,  but  for  that 
single  solitary  night ! 

.  Not  alone  do  the  flowers  feel  the  frost.  It  is  the 
silent  signal  for  birds.  Their  food  will  now  decrease, 
insects  and  worms  are  withdrawing,  plants  are  collapsing. 
Birds  that  have,  been  scattered  all  summer  begin  to  col- 


434 


AUTUMN  FROSTS. 


lect  in  flocks.  They  rise  before  you  in  your  country  walks 
along  the  fences  or  hedges  in  great  numbers,  peeping,  or 
faintly  chirping,  but  seldom  singing.  Their  thoughts  are 
on  the  far  Southern  land.  They  will  be  with  you  in  great 
flocks  to-day  :  to-morrow,  over  the  same  ground,  you 
shall  scare  up  scarcely  one.  If  there  be  evergreen  woods 
or  sheltered  swamps  in  your  neighborhood,  you  will  have 
some  few  birds,  of  various  kinds,  with  you  through  the 
winter.  If  you  provide  them  food  they  will  often  hover, 
about  your  house  all  winter  long.  But  the  great  com- 
munity of  singing  birds  leaves  soon  after  the  severe 
frosts  come. 

Little  by  little  we  accustom  ourselves  to  the  change. 
The  trees  come  out  from  behind  their  leaves,  and  reveal 
the  beautiful  frame- work  on  whicll  the  leaf-plumage  has 
all  summer  been  displayed.  The  forest  floor  is  golden 
with  leaves,  and  the  sun  falls  with  double  brightness  in 
places  long  hidden  from  his  sight.  The  forest  vistas, 
no  longer  choked  with  growing  leaves,  open  up  in  long 
reaches. 

One  that  lingers  in  the  fields,  and  makes  himself  a 
companion  of  nature,  seems  to  see  the  world,  like  a  ship 
entering  a  storm,  reducing  sail,  and  getting  everything 
in  the  smallest  compass,  and  into  the  snuggest  form. 

Think  not  that  joy  and  pleasure  have  departed,  and 
that  melancholy  takes  possession  of  the  bower,  hill,  and 
meadow.  So  profuse  is  Nature  that  its  leanest  month  is 
rich  to  one  who  has  eyes  to  behold  it ! 

The  moss,  the  lichen,  the  bark,  the  rocks,  the  little 
hidden  corners  where,  as  in  a  casket,  Nature  keeps  her 


AUTUMN  FROSTS. 


435 


pet  treasures,  give  continuous  pleasure,  till  the  snow 
comes  and  hides  all.  But  then,  the  snow  itself  spreads 
a  new  landscape,  with  a  glory  of  its  own. 

But  whether  the  fields  are  sere  and  brown,  or  white 
and  fleecy,  the  great  heavens  overhead  bloom  on.  Clouds 
blossom  out  and  move  through  their  circuits  in  wondrous 
beauty.  And  the  soul,  even  in  the  depth  of  winter,  re- 
joices-in  the  glory  of  God  spread  over  all  the  earth  ! 


XIX 


A  PIOUS  CAT. 

November,  1871. 

We  always  knew  that  it  would  turn  out  so.  The 
real  fact  is,  cats  are  an  absurd  race,  and  always  have 
"been ;  but  we  have  claimed  for  them  many  and  distin- 
guishing excellences,  and  for  doing  so  we  have  been 
confronted  —  in  our  own  house,  too  —  with  indignant 
denials.  "  Cats  are  selfish  and  treacherous.  They  fawn 
on  you  without  affection,  and  only  for  their  own  pleasure. 
They  are  sly,  cruel,  and  hateful,"  —  to  all  of  which,  time 
and  again,  we  have  entered  a  denial.  That  a  cat  has  a 
capacity  of  being  sly  and  cruel  far  beyond  any  vouch- 
safed to  a  rabbit  or  a  hen  we  do  not  deny.  But  a  good 
education  will  reduce  these  qualities  to  a  condition  about 
as  respectable  as  they  exhibit  in  the  human  race. 

"  The  cat  is  sly  ! "  Is  not  a  hunter  sly  ?  Is  not  a  fish- 
erman sly,  stealing  along  the  brook  with  a  gaudy  and 
deceitful  "  fly,"  designed  to  inveigle  trout  ?  "  The  cat  is 
cruel ! "  Is  it  because  he  kills  rats  and  birds  ?  What, 
then,  must  be  the  cruelty  of  man  ?  No  doubt  a  moral 
cat  of  proper  education,  and  belonging  to  the  right 
church,  would  prefer  (infinitely  prefer)  to  have  its  meat 
killed  for  it,  and  properly  dressed,  and  brought  around 
daily  in  a  butcher's  cart.  But,  if  that  is  not  done,  why 
should  not  the  cat  kill  its  own  little  beef  ?  One  thing 
is  certain  :  the  cat  kills  only  that  it  may  eat.  Neither 


A  PIOUS  CAT. 


437 


does  it  dally  over  its  food,  praising  its  juices  and  smack- 
ing its  lips,  after  the  manner  of  men,  over  this  and  that 
tidbit.  If  each  man  and  child  were  dependent  every  day 
for  their  food  upon  their  own  skill  in  securing  game,  if 
every  one  were  obliged  to  be  his  own  butcher  and  serve 
up  his  sustenance  with  bloody  hands,  is  it  likely  that  we 
should  be  as  neat,  select,  and  delicate  in  our  methods  of 
destruction  as  a  cat  is  ? 

No,  under  proper  treatment  the  cat  is  a  gentleman. 
He  carries  himself  with  aristocratic  self-respect.  He  has 
an  instinctive  knowledge  of  society,  —  social  intuition, 
as  one  might  say,  —  and  perceives  at  a  glance  who  is 
prejudiced  against  him  and  who  is  partial. 

If  the  cat  has  not  the  capacity  of  disinterested  friend- 
ship, then  no  animal  has.  To  be  sure,  the  cat  does  not 
gaze  at  you  with  the  inquisitive  or  inquiring  looks  which 
an  intelligent  dog  casts  upon  his  master ;  but  every  one 
has  his  own  way  of  showing  affection,  and  a  cat's  way  is 
not  less  genuine  because  it  is  unlike  a  dog's. 

We  have  before  this  had  occasion  to  discourse  upon 
sundry  and  diverse  cats  at  Peekskill.    But  now  we  have  m 
another  tale  to  tell,  which  ought  to  raise  the  cat  high  in 
moral  pdKtion. 

Bessie,  be  it  known,  is  not  only  the  Mother  Superior 
of  the  place,  but  is  a  cat  of  unexceptionable  record,  and 
of  the  best  manners.  No  cat  ever  reared  her  household 
with  more  anxious  diligence.  Woe  to  dog  or  other  cat 
that  approached  the  sacred  precinct  where  her  kittens 
were  preserved  !  Her  losses  were  borne  with  exemplary 
patience.    One  kitten  a  horse  stepped  on ;  one  or  two 


438 


A  PIOUS  CAT. 


* 


others,  in  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  their  youth,  were 
pursued  by  certain  black-and-tan  terriers,  during  their 
mother's  absence,  as  they  sported  in  the  twilight,  and 
were  cruelly  done  to  death.  One  or  two  others  the 
"  city  cat "  (that  fierce  and  mighty  creature ! )  slew. 

That  Bessie  was  sustained  under  her  great  losses  all 
could  see.  But  that  it  should  awaken  in  her  mind  a 
deep  seriousness  is  as  surprising  as  it  must  be  gratifying. 

Bessie  is  very  fond  of  Mr.  Turner ;  as,  indeed,  all  the 
cats  are,  and  all  the  dogs,  and  all  the  salves,  and  every- 
thing else  that  dwells  on  the  farm.  Even  flies  and  mos- 
quitoes court  him.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  cats 
and  dogs  —  a  motley  company,  big  and  little,  white,  black, 
and  gray  —  going  forth  with  Turner  to  the  fields. 

It  happened  a  Sunday  or  two  ago  that  on  starting  for 
church,  a  mile  distant,  he  found  Bessie  at  the  foot  of  the 
lane  wending  her  way  with  him.  Bless  her  fur,  what 
use  is  there  in  a  cat's  going  to  church  ?  If  she  had  ev^r 
heard  the  proverb  about  the  church-mice  it  must  have 
told  her  that  they  are  always  poor,  and  not  worth  so  long 
%       a  tramp. 

She  was  admonished  and  sent  back.  The  party  went 
on,  entered  the  sanctuary,  and,  it  is  to  be  hopeife  profited 
by  its  lesson  of  devotion.  But  what  was  their  surprise, 
on  rising  at  the  close  of  service,  to  find  Bessie  at  the 
door  waiting  for  their  departure  !  It  is  plain  that  she 
had  had  a  realizing  sense  of  her  privilege.  To  church 
she  would  go,  and  to  church  she  did  go,  —  the  true 
church,  too,  —  no  Presbyterian,  no  Methodist,  no  Baptist 
church  did  she  countenance,  but  the  genuine  Episcopal 


A  PIOUS  CAT.  439 

church.  Her  conduct  proved  unexceptionable.  She  can 
now  go  whenever  she  desires,  unrebuked. 

On  learning  these  facts  I  felt  not  only  a  great  respect 
for  Bessie,  but  a  desire  to  learn  her  opinions  on  many 
questions.  Accordingly,  on  a  bright  morning,  —  oh,  how 
the  sun  did  shine !  and  the  great  broad  heavens  above 
were  full  of  brilliant  ether,  —  I  broached  to  Bessie  some 
of  the  salient  points  of  controversy  familiar  to  our  day. 

"Is  it  your  opinion  that  service  should  be  said  or 
sung  ?  "  I  asked  Jier,  at  the  same  time  patting  her  head 
gently.  She  at  once  opened  up  such  a  purring  that  it 
was  plain  she  inclined  to  a  service  of  song. 

I  could  get  no  very  positive  answer  as  to  whether  she 
sympathized  with  the  High  Church  party  or  the  Low. 
She  looked  wise,  as  I  had  seen  other  people  do  on  the 
same  topic,  and  rather  humped  her  back,  and  walked 
very  stiffly  against  my  knee,  with  her  tail  held  aloft  to 
its  uttermost  length.  She  did  not  choose  to  say  any- 
thing ;  but  I  could  see  by  such  a  token  that  she  inclined 
to  the  High  party. 

I  could  not  make  out  much  upon  the  topic  of  baptis- 
mal regeneration.  She  licked  her  paws  and  washed  her 
face  assiduously,  and  seemed  anxious  to  be  utterly  clean ; 
but  further  than  that  I  could  get  no  hint.  It  may  be 
that  she  meant  to  say  that  baptism,  if  well  rubbed  in, 
might  regenerate;  or,  she  might  have  wished  to  show 
by  signs  that  the  whole  thing  was  but  superficial,  and 
did  not  work  inward  moral  change. 

But  the  grand  point  of  satisfaction  was  this :  she  was 
entirely  sound  on  the  Catechism. 


XX 


LEAVES. 

November,  1872. 

They  are  almost  gone,  —  the  leaves,  I  mean.  Long 
have  they  held  their  hands  over  our  heads,  to  shade  us 
from  the  sun  ;  they  have  danced  on  the  grass  in  all  fan- 
tastic and  shadowy  ways  for  our  amusement ;  they  have, 
in  their  poor,  shivering,  and  sighing  ways  sung  to  us. 
Every  morning  they  dressed  themselves  with  dew-drop 
jewelry  for  our  eyes  to  admire,  and  roguishly  pelted  us 
with  some  of  their  superabundance  when  we  incautiously 
ventured  near. 

What  beauty  they  have  modestly  retained  through  all 
the  season  !  The  very  bud  that  early  began  to  swell 
was  beautiful  to  the  eye  and  of  grateful  odor,  —  an  odor 
so  subtle  that  one  needs  to  be  in  health  and  in  fine  con- 
dition to  perceive  it.  The  early  leaf-life  is  not  usually 
enjoyed  as  much  as  it  should  be.  Busy  men  have  no 
time  to  look  at  leaves.  They  merely  mark  by  them  the 
progress  of  the^  seasons.  A  whole  tree  in  the^ferst  ele- 
gance of  unfolding  may  bring  one  to  a  moment's  pause. 
Few  there  be  — the  elect  —  who  watch  for  them,  hail 
their  coming  as  one  would  a  babe  in  the  house,  catch 
the  dainty  yellow  just  hinting  green,  or  the  exquisite 
pink,  so  rarely  delicate  that  one  might  think  that  young 
leaves  in  the  balmy  days  of  spring  brought  their  colors 
from  some  other  world,  to  be  tarnished  iq,  this.  Take 


LEAVES.  441 

them  in  your  hand.  Sit  quietly  in  your  sun- warm  nook, 
look  at  them  in  every  line  and  feature  as  a  mother  looks 
at  her  babe's  face  ! 

Making  too  much  of  trifles  ?  God  never  trifles.  His 
least  touch  is  that  of  an  artist,  and  he  only  should  be 
ashamed  who  scorns  to  linger  fondly  over  every  step 
which  nature  takes. 

A  thorough  study  of  leaf-forms  is  almost  an  art-edu- 
cation. The  surface  structure,  the  contrast  of  upper  and 
under  texture ;  their  widely  varying  habit  of  absorbing 
or  reflecting  light;  their  group-methods,  as,  whether 
they  grow  in  strata,  throwing  off  the  light  in  sheets,  or 
in  broken  bunches,  checkering  the  light,  or  in  masses, 
making  of  the  tree  a  globeful  of  hills  and  valleys,  of 
light  and  shade ;  or  whether  the  leaves  fleck  the  tree  all 
over,  from  each  leaf,  with  sharp  points  innumerable  of 
light,  making  spark-like  effects,  —  these  elements  all 
enter  into  the  delight  with  which  a  lover  of  trees  studies 
his  darlings. 

Nor  does  it  need  so  much  time.  Is  it  not  as  well  to 
look  upon  trees  and  leaves  when  you  ride  to  town  as  to 
look  at  the  bottom  of  your  wagon,  or  to  follow  the  fidgety 
frisk  of  your  horse's  tail  ? 

Come,  are  there  no  Sundays  whose  mellow  afternoons 
find  you  gentle,  receptive,  tender  ?  Have  you  no  place 
out  of  doors  to  lie  down  in  ?  Unhappy  man,  who  has 
no  spot  consecrated  b^  numberless  lyings  down !  It  is 
well  sometimes  to  be  alone ;  to  look  up  into  the  unmeas- 
ured space  above;  to  dwell  in  the  air,  as  it  were  ;  to  re- 
fresh and  cleanse  the  mind  by  things  the  least  seemingly 

19* 


442 


LEAVES. 


earthly.  Yet,  if  yon  grow  weary,  there  is  enough  within 
reach  of  your  hand  to  employ  all  the  time  you  can  spare. 
And  many  a  book  there  is  whose  leaves  have  not  the 
same  beauty  of  art,  or  the  same  profit  of  reading. 

But  to  what  purpose  do  I  say  all  this,  when  the  leaves 
are  fallen  ?  Not  like  birds  have  they  flown  to  warmer 
climates.  They  die  where  they  were  born.  They  went 
forth  in  full  glory.  No  army  with  banners  was  ever  so 
glorious  as  the  maples,  the  liquidambers,  the  hickories, 
the  oaks,  the  sumacs,  the  sassafras,  as  they  stood  in 
brilliant  array  waiting  for  their  call.  At  length  the  leaves 
unclasped  their  hold,  and  let  go.  The  ribbed  trees  stood 
up  against  the  sky,  marking  it  with  a  thousand  slen- 
der lines  and  bars.  The  ground  was  gorgeous  for  a 
day.  Then  raking  winds  swept  away  the  leaves,  hud- 
dled them  up  under  fences,  blew  them  wild  over  the 
hill,  rolled  them,  and  whirled  them,  and  tossed  them 
up  and  down,  in  all  the  region  round  about,  till  the 
rains  beat  them  to  earth ;  and  now  they  lie  wet  and 
decaying  all  abroad. 

But  what  is  that  ?  Up  among  the  branches,  now 
clearly  seen,  is  a  nest,  hidden  all  summer  by  green  leaves, 
all  the  autumn  by  golden  ones,  —  a  nest,  an  empty  nest ! 
When  it  was  a  home,  and  gay  birds  inhabited  it,  green 
leaves  hid  from  dangerous  eyes  the  treasure.  When  its 
work  was  done,  golden  leaves  hid  its  emptiness.  The 
tree  is  bare,  the  nest  is  empty,  November  days  are 
chill ;  but  the  birds  hatched  therein  have  flown  over  hill 
and  over  field,  and  are  singing  far  away  upon  the  South- 
ern trees.    They  will  come  back !    Next  summer  the 


LEAVES. 


443 


leaves  will  hide  again  the  nest,  and  the  merry  brood  will 
come  again  from  it ! 

Yet  many  empty  nests  there  are  to  which  will  come 
again  no  wing,  no  song  !  Too  well  they  flew,  and  were 
carried  clear  over  into  the  eternal  Summer.  /  shall  go 
to  him,  but  he  shall  not  return  unto  me.  Thus  spake  the 
kingly  singer  of  Israel,  and  ten  thousand  hearts  repeat 
the  solemn  liturgy. 


XXI 


THE  DESCENT  OF  WINTER. 

December,  1872. 

.  Because  several  of  those  phenomena  in  nature  which 
betoken  great  Power  are  accompanied  with  violent 
sounds,  we  are  apt  to  fall  into  the  notion  that  sound 
and  display  are  universally  attributes  or  accompani- 
ments of  Power.  It  is  true  that  some  of  the  sublimest 
exhibitions  of  power  have  also  the  most  impressive  ac- 
companiments of  sound.  The  roar  of  the  ocean  is  as 
notable  as  the  force  of  its  waves.  The  voice  of  the  wind 
is  as  sublime  as  the  power  which  it  exerts.  The  flash 
of  lightning  goes  forth  to  the  sound  of  thunder.  The 
detonations  of  powder,  in  the  quarry  where  it  tears  out 
mighty  ribs  of  rock,  or  on  the  battle-field,  or  on  a  man- 
of-war,  are  as  striking  as  the  force  which  it  exhibits.  ' 

But,  after  all,  the  mightiest  forces  in  nature  are  silent. 
The  prodigious  work  which  the  sun  performs,  by  light 
and  heat,  is  wrought  in  silence.  The  functions  performed 
by  a  single  tree,  if  wrought  by  human  enginery,  would  fill 
the  neighborhood  with  clamor.  The  forces  which  are  at 
work  in  the  grass  fields,  the  lifting  power  of  bush  and 
tree,  the  chemical  forces  which  are  elaborating  the  tissues 
would,  if  expressed  by  sound,  in  any  such  manner  as  the 
wind  or  wave,  turn  the  world  into  a  hideous  roar  of  wild 
noises.  Grand  as  are  the  impressions  produced  by  the 
royal  Sounds  of  Nature,  they  do  not  affect  the  sensitive 
soul  as  do  the  Silences  of  Nature. 


THE  DESCENT  OF  WINTER.  445 

« 

Bound  the  whole  northern  zone,  in  one  night,  the  air 
chills.  With  no  word  or  sound,  every  root  feels  the 
command,  and  all  growth  ceases.  The  frost  key  is  turned, 
Summer  is  shut  out,  and  Winter  reigns. 

Myriads  of  snow-flakes  descend.  All  night  they  have 
been  falling.  Not  a  babe  awaked.  They  marched  with- 
out sound.  Still  they  come,  covering  all  things,  laying 
an  embargo  on  sea  and  land,  and  burying  the  world. 
What  an  infinity  of  motion  !  What  white  darkness  fills 
the  air !  What  gentle  irresistibleness  !  It  takes  all 
sound  from  the  ground,  and  from  rock  and  tree,  and 
hushes  the  world.  But  let  no  one  think  that  this  sus- 
pense of  nature  lasts  long.  It  is  only  in  the  coming 
that  the  snow-army  holds  all  things  in  quiet.  Men 
bestir  themselves.  The  buried  village  seeks  to  open  up 
the  lost  roads.  Oxen  wallow  through  the  snow,  and 
shouting  boys  and  men  break  out  the  paths.  Now  for 
the  woodman !  He  seeks  the  mountain  woodland  for 
timber  and  fuel.  That  which  buries  all  roads  becomes 
itself  the  best  of  roads.  Huge  loads  slide  easily  where 
wheels  could  not  have  gone.  New  levels  are  made  along 
the  broken  surfaces  which  in  summer  would  have  defied 
travel ;  and  along  the  hardened  snow  oxen  draw  double 
and  treble  loads. 

What  exquisite  wreaths  lie  along  the  hemlock  boughs, 
tuft  the  many-fingered  pine,  and  crest  the  bare  branches 
of  the  deciduous  trees  !  A  soft  sunlight  fills  the  forest, 
reflected  from  myriad  crystal  facets.  No  longer  is  there 
gloom.  The  trees  are  glorified.  They  bear  strange  foli- 
age of  white.    They  lose  their  gross  and  solid  look,  and 


446 


THE  DESCENT  OF  WINTER 


lift  themselves  up  in  white  vestments,  as  if  some  holiday- 
were  holding  in  Fairyland. 

Nor  is  life  extinct.  After  the  storm  come  mild  days. 
The  curious  sun  peers  into  every  nook  and  corner ;  it 
tempts  the  squirrel  from  his  hole,  whose  whisk  and  whirl 
soon  clear  the  boughs  around  his  home.  Sitting  in  the 
crotch  where  the  sun  falls,  he  turns  his  nut  or  acorn 
round  and  round,  and  soon  it  is  emptied. 

On  the  edges  of  the  wood  blue-jays  fly  in  and  out 
with  fluttering  disquiet,  as  birds  would  be  apt  to  do  with 
stockingless  feet  in  such  a  snow.  Brave  and  brilliant 
jay,  with  a  voice  such  as  would  issue  from  a  tin- ware 
shop  if  every  article  therein  should  set  out  to  sing ! 
In  summer  we  can  dispense  with  its  harsh  and  cutting 
noise  ;  but  in  winter  it  lends  a  cheer  to  the  woods  which 
makes  it  gladly  welcome.  Yonder,  too,  are  the  snow- 
buntings,  plump,  confiding,  homely.  Nor  are  these  all : 
where  the  evergreens  grow  thick  in  sheltered  nooks  may 
be  found,  especially  in  open  winters,  many  of  our  sum- 
mer birds,  —  robins,  sparrows,  the  nuthatch,  woodpeck- 
ers, and  others,  —  all  songless,  but  all  giving  life  and 
movement  to  the  scene.  Only  the  crow,  of  all  singers,  is 
vocal  in  winter :  that  hoarse  cawing  which,  amidst  milder 
sounds  in  spring,  we  might  smile  at  as  an  effort  of 
psalmody,  now,  on  some  calm  winter  morning  sounding 
through  the  air,  awakes  a  thousand  pleasing  associations, 
and  if  not  positively  musical,  excites  the  very  feelings 
which  music  aims  at.  But  to  our  ear  the  crow-notes, 
softened  by  distance,  are  musical, —  far  more  so  than 
many  another  bass  recitative,  which  we  have  heard  from 
artists  of  repute. 


THE  DESCENT  OF  WINTER.  447 

In  the  woods,  snow  soon  loses  its  purity  of  color.  The 
dust  and  dirt  of  trees  fall  upon  it ;  twigs  and  bits  of 
moss  and  bark  spot  the  fair  expanse. 

The  farmer  loves  the  snow  because  it  protects  his 
winter  grain,  mulches  his  grass,  and,  absorbing  chemicals 
*  from  the  atmosphere,  enriches  his  soil. 

Boys  love  the  snow  for  the  infinite  joys  of  the  sled, 
for  snow-balling,  for  snow-houses,  ramparts,  and  fierce 
battle.  Girls  love  it  because  it  is  a  perpetual  invitation 
to  liberal-minded  beaux  to  take  numberless  sleigh-rides.  • 

The  poor  city  workman  loves  to  see  snow  coming. 
He  makes  wages  at  cleaning  off  the  sidewalks :  let  it 
come !  It  hides  the  barren,  dingy  ground,  it  covers  deep 
the  roots  of  new  set  trees,  and  particularly  the  tender 
shrubs  in  the  garden.  But  let  it  come  as  it  did  in  our 
boyhood,  —  all  night,  all  day,  all  night  again,  covering 
many  feet  deep  all  the  region  round,  imprisoning  people 
in  their  houses,  shutting  off  town  from  town,  hiding 
fences,  obliterating  woods,  blown  by  great  winds  into 
mighty  drifts,  taking  possession  of  the  land,  and  reduc- 
ing all  things  to  its  dominion ! 

Feeble  snows  be  far  from  us,  whose  hearts  fail  them, 
which  melt  to  rain,  leaving  us  on  the  muddy  line. 

Come,  bountiful  winter,  with  snows  that  last,  —  deep, 
pure,  solid ;  that  will  not  depart  till  April  serves  its 
warmth,  and  blue-birds  warble  softly  in  the  cherry-trees, 
and  bouncing  robins  make  the  morning  and  evening 
melodious. 

THE  END. 


SOME  GOOD  BOOKS. 


FOB  SALE  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS,  OB  MAILED,  POST-PAID,  TO  ANY  ADDBESS, 
ON  RECEIPT  OF  THE  PRICE,  BY  THE  PUBLISHERS, 


J.  B.  FORD  AETD  COMPANY, 


No.  27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


BEECHER'S  SERMONS  :  First,  Second,  Third,  Fourth,  Fifth,  and 
Sixth  Series.  From  phonographic  reports  by  T.  J.  Ellin  wood,  for  fifteen  years 
Mr.  Beecher's  special  reporter.  Uniformly  bound  in  dark  brown  English  cloth. 
Single  volumes,  each  complete,  price,  $  2.50  ;  full  set  of  six  volumes  for  $  14.50. 
Bound  in  half  morocco,  $  5  per  vol. 

Of  the  first  volume  the  Advance,  of  Chicago,  said  :  — 

"  The  volume  is  a  handsome  one,  and  is  prefaced  with  the  best  portrait  of  Mr. 
Beecher  we  have  ever  seen.  The  sermons  are  twenty-seven  in  number,  the  regular 
Sunday  morning  discourses  of  six  months,  and  are  a  wonderful  testimony,  not  only  to 
the  real  goodness  of  heart  of  the  great  Plymouth  preacher,  but  to  the  fertility  of  re- 
source, industry  of  thought,  and  rare  ability  which  can  keep  his  regular  ministrations 
to  such  a  height  of  average  excellence." 

.  ..."  These  corrected  sermons  of  perhaps  the  greatest  of  living  preachers,  —  a 
man  whose  heart  is  as  warm  and  catholic  as  his  abilities  are  great,  and  whose  sermons 
combine  fidelity  and  Scriptural  truth,  great  power,  glorious  imagination,  fervid 
rhetoric,  and  vigorous  reasoning,  with  intense  human  sympathy  and  robust  common 
sense."  —  British  Quarterly  Review. 

Each  succeeding  volume  contains,  also,  six  months'  sermons  (from  450  to  500  pp.) 
issued  in  style  uniform  with  the  First  Series.  The  Second  Series  contains  a  fine 
interior  view  of  Plymouth  Church.   The  other  volumes  are  not  illustrated. 


LECTURE-ROOM  TALKS.  A  series  of  Familiar  Discourses, 
on  Themes  of  Christian  Experience.  By  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  Phono- 
graphically  reported  by  T.  J.  Ellinwood  ;  with  Steel  Portrait.  12mo,  extra 
cloth.    Price,  $  1.75.    [  Out  of  print.    Will  be  reissued  soon.] 

"  J.  B.  Ford  &  Co.,  who  are  now  printers  and  publishers  to  the  Beecher  family, 
have  collected  in  a  handsome  volume  the  Lecture-Room  Talks  of  the  Brooklyn 
preacher,  held  in  the  weekly  prayer-meeting  of  the  Plymouth  Church.  There  is  a 
great  deal  of  humorous  talk  mingled  with  much  that  is  serious,  and  the  subjects  dis- 
cussed are  of  the  most  varied  kind.  It  is  a  charming  book." —  Springfield  (Mass.) 
Republican. 

MY  WIFE  AND  I  ;  or,  Harry  Henderson's  History.  A 
Novel.  By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Illustrated  by  H.  L.  Stephens.  474 
pages  ;  extra  cloth,  stamped  cover,  $  1.75. 

This  novel  is  the  success  of  the  year.  It  has  been  selling  very  rapidly  ever  since 
its  publication.    Everybody  is  reading'  it. 

"  Always  bright,  piquant,  and  entertaining,  with  an  occasional  touch  of  tenderness, 
strong  because  subtle,  keen  in  sarcasm,  full  of  womanly  logic  directed  against  un- 
womanly tendencies,  Mrs.  Stowe  has  achieved  an  unbounded  success  in  this  her 
latest  effort."  —  Boston  Journal, 


2 


MATERNITY :  A  Popular  Treatise  for  Wives  and  Mothers. 

By  T.  S.  Verdi,  A.  M.,  M.  D.,  of  Washington,  D.  C.  Handsomely  printed  on 
fine  paper,  bevelled  boards,  extra  English  cloth.  12mo.  450  pp.  Price, 
$  2.25.    Fourth  Edition. 

"  The  author  deserves  great  credit  for  his  labor,  and  the  book  merits  an  extensive 
circulation." —  U.  S.  Medical  and  Surgical  Journal  {Chicago). 

M  There  are  few  intelligent  mothers  who  will  not  be  benefited  by  reading  and  keep- 
ing by  them  for  frequent  counsel  a  volume  so  rich  in  valuable  suggestions.  With  its 
tables,  prescriptions,  and  indices  at  the  end,  this  book  ought  to  do  much  good." — 
Hearth  and  Home. 

"  We  hail  the  appearance  of  this  work  with  true  pleasure.  It  is  dictated  by  a  pure 
and  liberal  spirit,  and  will  be  a  real  boon  to  many  a  young  mother."  —  American  Med- 
ical Observer  {Detroit), 

THE  CHILDREN'S  WEEK :  Seven  Stories  for  Seven  Days. 
By  R.  W.  Raymond.  16mo.  Nine  full-page  illustrations  by  H.  L.  Stephens 
and  Miss  M.  L.  Hallock.   Price,  extra  cloth,  $  1.25  ;  cloth,  full  gilt,  $  1.50. 

"  The  book  is  bright  enough  to  please  any  people  of  culture,  and  yet  so  simple  that 
children  will  welcome  it  with  glee.  Mr.  Raymond's  tales  have  won  great  popularity 
by  their  wit,  delicate  fancy,  and,  withal,  admirable  good  sense.  The  illustrations  — 
all  new  and  made  for  the  book— are  particularly  apt  and  pleasing,  showing  forth  the 
comical  element  of  the  book  and  its  pure  and  beautiful  sentiment."  —  Buffalo  (N.  Y.) 
Commercial  Advertiser. 

THE  OVERTURE  OF   ANGELS.   By  Henry  Ward 

Beecher.  Illustrated  by  Harry  Fenn.  12mo,  tinted  paper,  extra  cloth,  gilt. 
Price,  $2.00. 

This  exquisite  gift-book  is  an  excerpt  from  Mr.  Beecher's  great  work,  the  *'  Life  of 
Jesus  the  Christ."  It  is  a  series  of  pictures,  in  the  author's  happiest  style,  of  the 
Angelic  Appearances,  giving  a  beautiful  and  characteristically  interesting  treatment 
of  all  the  events  recorded  in  the  Gospels  as  occurring  about  the  period  of  the  na- 
tivity of  our  Lord. 

"  The  style,  the  sentiment,  and  faithfulness  to  the  spirit  of  the  Biblical  record  with 
which  the  narrative  is  treated  are  characteristic  of  its  author,  and  will  commend  it  to 
many  readers,  to  whom  its  elegance  of  form  will  give  it  an  additional  attraction."  — 
Worcester  (Mass.)  Spy. 

"  A  perfect  fragment."  —  New  York  World. 


OUR  SEVEN  CHURCHES :  Eight  Lectures  by  THOMAS  K. 
Beecher.   16mo.   Paper,  50  cents  •,  extra  cloth,  $  1 ;  cloth,  gilt,  $  1.25. 

"  The  eight  lectures  comprised  in  this  volume  are  conceived  in  a  spirit  of  broad 
liberality  as  refreshing  as  it  is  rare.  They  evince,  in  the  most  gratifying  manner  pos- 
sible, how  easy  it  is  to  find  something  good  in  one's  neighbors  or  opponents,  or  even 
enemies,  if  one  tries  faithfully  to  do  so,  instead  of  making  an  effort  to  discover  a  fault 
or  a  weakness.  The  volume  is  one  which  should  have,  as  it  undoubtedly  will,  a  wide 
circulation."  —  Detroit  Free  Press. 


MINES,  MILLS,  AND  FURNACES  of  the  Precious  Metals 

of  the  United  States.  Being  a  complete  Exposition  of  the  General  Methods  em- 
ployed in  the  great  Mining  Industries  of  America,  including  a  Review  of  the 
present  Condition  and  Prospects  of  the  Mines  throughout  the  Interior  and  Pacific 
States.  By  Rossiter  W.  Raymond,  Ph.  D.,  United  States  Commissioner  of 
Mining  Statistics,  President  American  Inst.  Mining  Engineers,  Editor  of  the 
Engineering  and  Mining  Journal y  author  of  "  The  Mines  of  the  West,"  "  Amer- 
ican Mines  and  Mining,"  etc.,  etc.  1  vol.  8vo.  566  pages.  Illustrated  with 
engravings  of  machines  and  processes.    Extra  cloth,  $  3.50. 

"  The  author  is  thorough  in  his  subject,  and  has  already  published  a  work  on  our 
mines  which  commanded  universal  approval  by  its  clearness  of  statement  and  breadth 
of  views."  —  Albany  (N.  Y.)  Argus. 

"  His  scientific  ability,  his  practical  knowledge  of  mines  and  mining,  his  unerring 
iudgment,  and,  finally,  the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  enters  upon  his  work,  all  com- 
bine to  fit  him  for  his  position,  and  none  could  bring  to  it  a  greater  degree  of  upright- 
ness and  fairness."  —  Denver  ( Col.)  News. 


3 


PRINCIPLES  OF  DOMESTIC  SCIENCE  :  As  applied  to  the 

Duties  and  Pleasures  of  Home.  By  Catharine  E.  Beecher  and  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe.  A  compact  12mo  volume  of  390  pages  ;  profusely  illus- 
trated ;  well  printed,  and  bound  in  neat  and  substantial  style.    Price,  j$  2.00. 

Prepared  with  a  view  to  assist  in  training  young  women  for  the  distinctive  duties 
which  inevitably  come  upon  them  in  household  life,  this  volume  has  been  made 
with  especial  reference  to  the  duties,  cares,  and  pleasures  of  the  family ,  as  beiDg  the 
place  where,  whatever  the  political  developments  of  the  future,  woman,  from  her 
very  nature  of  body  and  of  spirit,  will  find  her  most  engrossing  occupation.  It  is 
full  of  interest  for  all  intelligent  girls  and  young  women. 

d^T*  The  work  has  been  heartily  indorsed  and  adopted  by  the  directors  of  many 
of  the  leading  Colleges  and  Seminaries  for  young  women  as  a  text-book,  both  for 
study  and  reading. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  STATE  OF  NEW  YORK.   From  the 

date  of  the  Discovery  and  Settlements  on  Manhattan  Island  to  the  Present 
Time.  A  Text-Book  for  High  Schools,  Academies,  and  Colleges.  By  S.  S.  Ran- 
dall, Superintendent  of  Public  Education  in  New  York  City.  12mo  vol., 
396  pages.   Illustrated.   Price,  $1.75 

"  This  work  contains  so  much  valuable  information  that  it  should  be  found  in  every 
house  in  the  State  as  a  volume  of  reference.  Its  value  for  use  in  educational  insti- 
tutions is  of  a  very  high  character."  —  Northern  Budget,  Troy  (N.  Y.). 

H^lp3"  Officially  adopted  by  the  Boards  of  Education  in  the  cities  of  New  York, 
Brooklyn,  and  Jersey  City  for  use  in  the  Public  Schools,  and  also  extensively  used  ia 
Private  Schools  throughout  the  State,  both  as  a  text-book  and  alternate  reader. 


H.  W.  BEECHER'S  WORKS.    Uniform  edition.   This  is  a  set 

of  books  long  needed  in  the  trade.  It  will  include  u  Norwood,"  "Lectures  to 
Young  Men,"  "  Eyes  and  Ears,"  "  Summer  in  the  Soul,"  the  early  "  Star 
Papers,"  a  new  edition  of  "  Lecture-Boom  Talks,"  and  other  works,  embracing 
some  which  are  now  out  of  print,  and  for  which  there  is  constant  call. 

The  first  volumes  issued  in  this  new  edition  of  Mr.  Beecher's  minor  works  are 

YALE  LECTURES  ON  PREACHING, 

Price,  extra  cloth,  $  1.25 ;  half  calf,  $  2.50 ;  and  a  new  edition  of 

LECTURES  TO  YOUNG  MEN, 

including  several  new  lectures  never  before  published,  a  new  Introduction  by  the 
author,  etc.,  etc.  Price,  extra  cloth,  $  1.50  ;  half  calf,  $  3.00. 

STAR  PAPERS, 

A  new  edition,  including  much  new  matter  added  to  the  original  book.  Price, 
extra  cloth.  $  1.75  j  half  calf,  $3.25. 


A  FRESH  BOOK  BY  GRACE  GREENWOOD. 
NEW  LIFE  IN  NEW  LANDS  :  Notes  of  Western  Travel. 

Racy,  sparkling,  readable,  full  of  wit  and  keen  observation,  it  gives  a  series  of 
brillant  pen  pictures  along  the  great  route  from  the  Mississippi  to  the  Pacific. 
12mo.  396  pp.   Price,  extra  cloth,  stamped  cover,  $2.00. 


4 

A  BRILLIANT  SUCCESS. 

IN  CONSTANT  DEMAND !     RAPID  AND  CONTINUED  SALES ! ! 

500  Volumes  in  One. 

AGENTS  WANTED 

FOR  THE 

Library  of  Poetry  and  Song, 

BEING 

Choice  Selections  from  the  Best  Poets, 

ENGLISH,  SCOTCH,  IRISH,  AND  AMERICAN,  INCLUDING  TRANS- 
LATIONS  FROM  THE  GERMAN,  SPANISH,  etc. 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  • 

BY  WILLIAM  CITLLEN"  BRYANT, 

Under  whose  careful  Supervision  the  Work  was  Compiled. 

In  one  Superb  Large  Octavo  Volume  of  over  800  pages,  well  printed,  on  Fine 
Paper,  and  Illustrated  with  an  admirable  Portrait  on  Steel  of  Mr. 
Bryant,  together  with  twenty-six  Autographic  Fac-Similes 
on  "Wood  of  Celebrated  Poets,  besides 
other  choice  Full-page  Engravings, 
by  the  best  Artists. 


The  handsomest  and  cheapest  subscription  book  extant.   A  Library  of 
over  500  Volumes  in  one  booh,  whose  contents,  of  no  ephemeral  nature  or 
interest,  will  never  grow  old  or  stale.   It  can  be,  and  will  be,  read  and  re- 
read with  pleasure  as  long  as  its  leaves  hold  together. 
* 

This  book  has  been  prepared  with  the  aim  of  gathering  into  a  single 
volume  the  largest  practicable  compilation  of  the  best  Poems  of  the 
English  language,  making  it  as  nearly  as  possible  the  choicest  and  most 
complete  general  collection  of  Poetry  yet  published. 


5 


THE 

"LIBRARY  OF  POETRY  AND  SONG" 

Is  a  volume  destined  to  become  one  of  the  most  popular  books  ever 
printed.  It  is  truly  a  people's  book.  Its  contents  would  cost  hundreds 
of  dollars  in  the  books  whence  they  are  gleaned,  English  and  American  ; 
and,  indeed,  although  one  possessed  the  volumes,  the  reading  of  such  vast 
numbers  of  pages  would  be  a  labor  not  readily  undertaken  by  most  people, 
even  those  who  appreciate  poetry. 


The  New  York  Times, 

A  journal  well  known  the  country  over  for  high  literary  excellence  and 
.  correct  taste,  says  :  — 

"  This  very  handsome  volume  differs  from  all  collections  of  ■  elegant  extracts,'  par- 
lor books,  and  the  like,  which  we  have  seen,  in  being  arranged  according  to  an  intel- 
ligible and  comprehensive  plan,  in  containing  selections  which  nearly  cover  the 
entire  historical  period  over  which  English  poetry  extends,  and  in  embracing  matter 
suited  to  every  conceivable  taste  and  every  variety  of  feeling  and  culture.  We  know 
of  no  similar  collection  in  the  English  language  which,  in  copiousness  and  felicity  of 

selection  and  arrangement,  can  at  all  compare  with  it  Ihe  volume  is  a  model  of 

typographical  clearness." 


The  Albany  Evening  Journal, 

One  of  the  oldest  papers  and  highest  literary  standards  in  the  country, 

says  :  — 

"  It  is  undoubtedly '  the  choicest  and  most  complete  general  collection  of  poetry  yet 
published.'  It  will  be  deemed  sufficient  proof  of  the  judicious  character  of  the  selec- 
tions, and  of  their  excellence,  that 4  every  poem  has  taken  its  place  in  the  book  only 
after  passing  the  cultured  criticism  of  Mr.  William  Cullen  Bryant,'  whose  portrait 
constitutes  the  fitting  frontispiece  of  the  volume.  The  work  could  have  no  higher 
indorsement.  Mr.  Bryant's  Introduction  to  the  volume  is  a  most  beautiful  and  critical 
essay  on  poets  and  poetry,  from  the  days  of  '  the  father  of  English  poetry  '  to  the 

present  time  No  other  selection  we  knoio  of  is  as  varied  and  complete  as  this :  and 

it  must  find  its  way  into  every  library  and  household  where  poetry  is  read  and 
appreciated." 


This  book,  supplying  a  real  public  need  in  an  admirable  manner,  has 
constantly  sold  so  fast  that  the  publishers  have  had  trouble  to  keep  up 
their  stock.   It  has  won  an  instant  and  permanent  popularity. 

Terms  liberal.  Agents  all  like  it,  and  buyers  are  more  than  pleased 
with  it.  Send  for  Circular  and  Terms  to 


J.  B.  FORD  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

27  Park  Place,  New  York. 

BRANCH  OFFICES:  Boston,  11  BrotnfieM  Street;  Chicago,  75  West 
Washington  Street  j  San  Francisco,  339  Kearney  Street. 


A  HOUSEHOLD  BOOK. 

NINE  UNABRIDGED,  WORLD-RENOWNED  VOLUMES  IN  ONE. 


AGENTS  WANTED 

FOR  THE 

Library  of  Famous  Fiction, 

EMBRACING  THE 

Nine  Standard  Masterpieces  t>f  Imaginative  Literature 

(unabridged), 
WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

BEAUTIFULLY  ILLUSTRATED 

With  34  Full-page  Engravings ;    executed  by  the  "best  Artists  in 
England  and  America ;  with  an  Illuminated  Title-Page,  Biographical 
Notice  of  each  Author,  etc. , — in  one  Elegant  Large  Octavo  Volume 
of  nearly  1,100  pages,  brilliantly  printed  on  fine  paper, 
handsomely  and  substantially  bound. 

o 

In  their  present  venture,  the  publishers  congratulate  themselves  that  the  matter 
offered  has  been  endorsed  by  the  approval  of  the  entire  reading  world  for  many 
generations.  The  remarkable  success  attending  their  Library  of  Poetry  and  Song, 
put  forth  under  the  auspices  of  that  greatest  American  poet,  William  Cullen 
Bryant,  naturally  suggested  the  idea  of  a  corresponding  Library  of  Famous  Fiction, 
to  be  guaranteed  and  set  before  the  public  by  the  most  popular  American  writer  of 
fiction  known  to  this  day,  —  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Thus  have  been  com- 
bined the  nine  great  masterpieces  of  imaginative  prose,  embodying  in  a  single 
convenient  volume  those  Famous  Fictions  which  have  been  admired  and  loved 
always,  everywhere,  and  by  all  classes. 

Their  number  is  not  large  ;  their  names  rise  spontaneously,  and  by  common  con- 
sent, in  every  mind  :  Pilgrim's  Progress ;  Robinson  Crusoe;  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield ; 
Gulliver'1  s  Travels  (revised) ;  Paul  and  Virginia;  Picciola;  Elizabeth,  or  the  Exiles 
of  Siberia  ;  Undine;  Vathek ;  and  a  Selection  of  Tales  from  the  Arabian  Nights'  En- 
tertainments. As  Mrs.  Stowe  says  in  her  Introduction,  "  not  a  single  one  could  be 
spared  from  this  group,  in  gathering  those  volumes  of  fiction  which  the  world, 
without  dissent,  has  made  classic." 

AST*  Sold  only  by  Subscription  through  our  Agents.  *JgM 

TERMS  LIBERAL.    Send  for  full  description  and  business  circulars,  to 

J.  B.  FORD  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

27  Parle  Place,  New  York* 

BRANCH  OFFICES:  Boston,  11  Bromfield  Street j  Chicago,  75  Wes> 
Washington  Street ;  San  Francisco,  839  Kearney  Street. 


SOLD  ONLY  BY  AGENTS. 


k  BOOK  FOE  &¥EH¥BGGY I 


The  very  remarkable  success  of  this  book  is  not  strange,  although 
it  is  having  unprecedented  sales. 


THE  LIFE 

OP 

JESUS  THE  CHRIST, 

BY 


HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 


<  Of  > 


From  the  Boston  (Mass.)  Traveller. 

M  This  work  has  a  deeper  purpose  to  serve  than  that  of  mere  ornament.  It  is  the 
product  of  a  life  of  thought  and  loving  labor  in  study  of  the  character  and  life  of  Jesus, 
and  a  remarkably  successful  career  of  presenting  it  to  the  popular  mind  in  the  min- 
istry of  the  pulpit. 

'*  The  demand  for  this  book  will  be  great  among  the  searchers  after  knowledge,  and 
it  will  be  a  standard  for  Christian  homes  and  libraries.  It  is  destined  to  exert  a  tre- 
mendous influence,  not  only  in  this  day  and  generation,  but  in  all  time." 


By  the  Rev.  Joseph  P.  Thompson,  IX.  3>.,  from  an  article  in  The 

Independent. 

"  That  which  first  impresses  one  in  Mr.  Beecher's  book  is  the  maturity  of  the  work, 
both  in  its  conception  and  in  its  execution.  If  any  have  expected  to  find  in  it  rhe- 
torical fancies  struck  out  at  extemporaneous  heat,  declamatory  statements  — '  the 
spontaneities  of  all  his  individual  personal  life  '  —  projected  from  some  fusing  centre 
of  philosophy  within,  but  not  welded  into  logical  consistency,  they  have  yet  to  know 
Mr.  Beecher  through  this  book,  as  working  by  method  upon  a  well-ordered  scheme 
of  thought,  and  with  a  deep  philosophic  purpose  toward  one  great,  overmastering 
conception.  He  has  neither  thrown  off  his  random  thoughts  nor  strung  together  his 
best  thoughts  ;  but  has  brought  all  his  powers,  in  the  maturity  of  their  strength,  in 
the  richness  of  their  experience,  and  the  largeness  of  their  development,  to  produce  a 
work  that  may  fitly  represent  the  labors  and  the  results  of  his  life." 


More  Agents  Wanted. 

Intelligent  men  and  women  may  obtain  lucrative  employment  by  taking 
an  agency.  Full  descriptive  Circulars  mailed  free.  Very  liberal  terms  to 
Canvassers.    Apply  to 

J.  B.  FORD  &  CO., 

27  Park  Place,  New  York;  11  Bromfield  St.,  Boston,  Mass.;  75 
West  Washington  St.,  Chicago,  111. ;  339  Kearney  St.,  San  Fran- 
cisco, Cal. 


THE 

CHRISTIAN  UNION 

IS  AN  UNSECTARIAN  RELIGIOUS  WEEKLY. 

HENRY  WARD  BEECHER, 

Editor. 

<   —  ■  o>  »  

This  journal  has  had  a  very  remarkable  success,  in  two  years  at- 
taining a  circulation  surpassing  that  of  any  other  religious  weekly  in 
the  world. 

WHY  IS  IT? 

Because,  First,  Henry  Ward  Beecher  is  its  Editor,  and  his 

Editorials,  Star  Papers,  and  occasional  Literary  Reviews  and  Lecture-Room 
Talks  are  sought  for  by  thousands,  while  the  auxiliary  editorial  labor  is  in  the 
hands  of  cultivated  journalists  j  the  CONTRIBUTORS  being  representative 
men  and  women  of  ALL  Denominations. 

Because,  Secondly,  ITS  FORM,  twenty-four  pages,  large  quarto, 

securely  pasted  at  the  back  and  cut  at  the  edges,  is  so  convenient  for  read- 
ing, binding,  and  preservation,  as  to  be  a  great  and  special  merit  in  its  favor. 

Because,  Thirdly,  It  is  called  "  the  most  Interesting  Religious  Paper 
published,"  being  quoted  from  by  the  press  of  the  entire  country  more  exten- 
sively than  any  other.  The  critical  Nation  (N.  Y.)  says  it  is  "  Not  only  the 
ablest  and  best,  but  also,  as  we  suppose,  the  most  popular  of  American  religious 
periodicals.  At  all  events  it  is  safe  to  predict  that  it  will  soon  have,  if  it  has 
not  already,  greater  influence  than  any  other  religious  paper  in  the  country." 

Because,  Fourthly,  It  has  something  for  every  Member  of  the  House- 
hold :  admirable  contributed  and  editorial  articles,  discussing  all  timely  topics  j 
fresh  information  on  unhackneyed  subjects ;  reliable  news  of  the  Church  and 
the  world  ;  Market  and  Financial  Reports  ;  an  Agricultural  Department ;  ex- 
cerpts of  Public  Opinion  from  the  press  ;  careful  Book  Reviews,  with  Educa- 
tional, Literary,  Musical,  and  Art  Notes  j  much  matter  of  a  high  and  pure 
religious  tone  •,  a  Household  Department }  choice  Poems  5  Household  Stories } 
and  Chat  for  the  Little  Ones; 


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